


Shot Me Out Of The Sky

by foxandbee



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I don't know, Slow Build, Tags confuse me, Update as I go?, a quite frankly concerning amount of fruit imagery, assassin!louis, but assassins!, but not really, cliffhangers left right and centre, famous!harry, first fic, protective!liam, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:37:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxandbee/pseuds/foxandbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Harry means well, he honestly does, but he also has a disproportionately large pie-hole which can sometimes get him into trouble. Take right now for instance, when someone’s out to get him, shots are being fired, Paul-the-human-bullet-vest is squishing him into the concrete and Harry really just wishes he knew when to keep his mouth shut. He blames it all on his underpants.</em>
</p><p>Alternatively, the story where Harry’s a passionate-if-slightly-misguided popstar who may or may not have multiple assassins out to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moron

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't even know what I'm doing. But I massively enjoy reading fanfiction so if even one other person enjoys this story then that'll just make my day.

Friday was not a normal day for Harry. Okay, well, to be fair, not many days could be considered ‘normal’ when you’re part of the most successful boyband the world has seen since, like, ever. But Friday was a _particularly_ abnormal day. It’s not every day someone tries to kill Harry Styles.

Okay so publicly condemning the worlds most powerful nation for its stance on same-sex marriage may not have been a wise move on Harry’s part. Calling its President a “backward, narrow-minded simpleton who merely serves as a puppet for the high-powered CEOs who _actually_ run the country and a walking advertisement for how _not_ to cover one’s receding hairline”… yeah, that was definitely incredibly stupid. A simple ‘moron’ probably would’ve sufficed. Or maybe Harry shouldn’t have gone on his little tirade at all. Yeah, Harry definitely shouldn’t have gone on that little tirade at all. It started one massive snowball rolling.

But it’s not _really_ his fault. The day of that interview Harry was over-worked and over-tired and under-caffeinated. Plus he couldn’t find his lucky pants. How could anyone really expect him to say the right thing (or at the very least refrain from saying the worst possible thing EVER) when he wasn’t wearing comfy undies? Also, Harry’s pretty sure he wasn’t even intending to voice his opinion on that particular subject. But sometimes even Harry himself finds it difficult to follow his slow-moving, long-winded ramblings and then he got all flustered and then he panicked _and then_ he accidentally called the President of the United States of America a balding, homophobic imbecile. Whoops?

So now Harry has half of America, countless religious groups and the entire populations of a good few traditionalist nations all howling for his head on a stick. Or, alternatively, they’re demanding he be shot, skewered, spit-roasted and served on a silver platter with a side of applesauce. Metaphorically speaking. (Although some not so much. Apparently cannibalism’s thing.)

Of course, it’s important to mention that for the extreme amount of haters he’s suddenly acquired, he’s also gained nearly double that number in lovers. (Not literal _lovers._ Christ, Harry’s young but he’s not got that kind of stamina. Also, he’s most certainly _not_ having sex with millions of people, despite what the Mirror is wont to report. He’s not _that_ slutty. Mostly.) Support, encouragement and kind words have been absolutely pouring in. People all over the world are getting behind him, defending him, calling him ‘the voice of a generation’. And not just faceless people from the Internet either. Real, substantial, _influential_ people are backing him. Elton John tweeted saying Harry was quote unquote “spot-on”. Angelina Jolie hugged him at a film premiere. (Angelina fucking Jolie. _Hugged him._ Harry could smell her perfume. He _smelled_ Angelina fucking Jolie.) Even Prince William said he supports what Harry was essentially getting at, if not his slightly misguided rant.

So yeah, although he’s getting a lot of hate for what he said, he’s also getting a lot of love. However, the difference is, is that while the people who support him are tweeting and sending letters and hugging him, the people who he offended are literally trying to murder him.

See, with the airing of that interview, Harry single-handedly and completely unintentionally started a social revolution. Obviously, Harry alone didn’t begin the fight for marriage equality. That was started long ago by people much braver and much more thoughtful than him. What Harry did do was bring the fight to the universal masses. With his international popstar status Harry inadvertently unified all the individual, national debates on legalising same-sex marriage and created a global movement. Harry was the final drop of water that burst the rainbow coloured floodgates. And now billions of people are standing up for equal rights. Protests increased in size, petitions increased in signatures, and voices increased in volume. Individual politicians were being held accountable by their constituents. The world was screaming for change. And it was Harry’s doing. And it pissed some people off.

Which brings the story back to Friday.


	2. Motherfreaking Marimba

Friday starts off as predictably as any other day of the week for Harry. He is startled out of a particularly pleasant dream featuring Angelina Jolie and caramel sauce by _motherfreaking marimba._ Harry could’ve sworn he changed his ringtone. He’s beginning to think Colin has a mind of it’s own, which is a particularly scary thought considering how many drunk selfies Harry takes on that phone. And _yes,_ he named his iPhone Colin. He also named his espresso machine Gloria. Because Harry lives on the edge and does what he wants, and if he wants to give inanimate objects names, he’ll name the shit out of them. He’s badass.

Rolling onto his stomach, and painfully squashing his erection, Harry smacks his hand around the top of the bedside table, searching blindly for his phone. When he doesn’t feel it, he cracks one eye open to see a small rectangle of light illuminating the pocket of yesterday jeans, lying haphazardly on the floor.

“Oh shut up,” Harry groans.

The phone abruptly stops ringing.

“Good Colin,” Harry mutters, flipping back over and snuggling under the covers. Just as Harry is trying to decide whether he would rather go back to sleep or have a lazy wank, the annoying glockenspiel noise starts back up again. Grumbling to himself about Colin’s blatant lack of respect, Harry heaves himself out of bed and stumbles over to his jeans, snatching the phone up and answering it without bothering to check the caller ID.

“What?” Harry snaps.

“Well good morning to you too, sunshine! I’m assuming from your tone that you haven’t taken care of your morning wood yet,” comes the reply.

“Okay Ed, a couple things. One, what the fuck!? Two, fuck off, you can’t possibly know that, and three, you can assume from my tone that it’s too fucking early to be calling me.”

“It’s midday, Harry.”

“Okay fine! Fine! Maybe I am sexually frustrated. _What do you want from me?”_

“Well I was actually just calling to see if you wanted to go down the park for a kickabout. Niall says you guys don’t need to be at sound check until four and it’s been way too long since I’ve seen you,” Ed’s sentence turns into a whine at the end.

“You saw me last week at the Teen Choice Awards. And I was actually hoping I could just sleep until sound check,” Harry whines right back.

“Nuh-uh, there is a massive difference between _seeing_ you and merely glimpsing your ridiculous fedora across a crowded room. You’re my mate and I love you. I want to talk to you, I want to know what’s been happening in your life, I want to poke you in the dimples until you get annoyed and try to bite me. I miss you.”

Despite himself, Harry grins at Ed’s words. No matter how hard he tries to convince himself to, he can never stay grumpy at Ed for long.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be there soon.”

“And…”

“And I miss you too.”

“And…”

“And I love you too.”

“Brilliant! I’ll give you ten minutes to take care of that boner. Bye bye!”

“I don’t miss you at all!”


	3. Holy Helen Mirren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all unbetaed and I'm horrendous at spelling. So if I'm horrifically embarrassing myself, please let me know.  
> Peace and love xx

When Harry arrives at the park half an hour later, the first thing he sees is Ed’s bright orange hair swaying about in the breeze. The first thing Ed says is, “I take it you enjoyed your shower then” while smirking suggestively at Harry’s crotch. The first thing Harry does is tackle Ed into the mud.

“You know, for someone who claims that he isn’t gay, you spend an awful lot of time talking about my dick,” Harry muses.

“Well actually, I never said I was completely straight…” Ed stops his struggling to peer nervously up at Harry. “And anyway, what if it was just you? What if I couldn’t stop thinking about your smile, or the little line you get between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating really hard on what someone’s saying to you, or the way you go all floppy whenever someone pets your curls?”

By this point Ed is slowly but surely turning from alabaster white to an alarming shade of pink never before seen outside of hen’s evenings. Harry is frozen on top of him, unblinking, unable to think anything other than _is it possible for someone to pass out from excessive blushing? Because I am not qualified to administer CPR._

“What if I do spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over your dick? What if I accidentally fell in love with my best friend? Would that be such a horrible thing?” Ed’s voice tapers off to something softer than a whisper and he stares hard at the hand he has wrapped around Harry’s knee.

Harry can only gape, helpless and wide-eyed, at the top of Ed’s head. _This cannot be happening._ This cannot be Harry’s life. Granted, Harry’s life is bizarre at the best of times, but never in a million years would Ed - best mate Ed, the Ed who snores on Harry’s couch and leaves empty beer bottles in the bathroom sink - never would that guy confess his undying love for Harry whilst sat in the park on a breezy Friday afternoon with mud in his hair and grass stains on his arse.

Right?

Harry’s first thought is that this is a dream. He never woke up this morning and this is all actually a very graphic, exceptionally disturbing dream. He subtly pinches himself in the inside of his elbow. It stings like a bitch.

Harry’s next thought is that this is some particularly cruel karmic revenge for fantasising about Angelina Jolie doing indecent things with a punnet of blueberries. Blueberries aren’t traditionally considered a sexy fruit, but with an over-active imagination and too much time spent bored in a tour bus, Harry can make anything dirty.

“I’m sorry Brad,” Harry whispers into the wind.

“Oh for fucks sake Harry! Stop dicking around and say something.” Ed looks like he’s about to breakdown sobbing.

“Ed – I – I can’t – I mean, I don’t – I mean, shit – fuck – I’m sorry, I just – and then you – oh bollocks.” Harry is a shit person. He’s just sitting here, breaking Ed’s fucking heart and he can’t even do it eloquently. He can’t even let him down gently with poetic words to soothe the burn.

And then Ed explodes into a fit of hysterical giggles.

“Oh god, I’ve really broken you haven’t I? I’ve sent you completely off your rocker,” Harry says while scrambling off Ed who is now rolling around and clutching his stomach.

That only makes Ed laugh harder, snorting with such force that Harry thinks he might eject his intestines out of his nostrils. It’s around the time that Ed starts physically weeping with mirth that Harry’s dumbstruck brain catches up with the situation.

“Oh, real funny. Har-dee-har, arsehole.” Harry pouts and crosses his arms, kicking out at Ed’s still writhing body.

When Ed’s hysterics have simmered down to a mild hiccupping, he sits up on the grass and slings an arm around Harry’s shoulder.

“That was mean,” Harry gripes and shrugs Ed off.

“Yeah. But you gotta admit, that was fucking brilliant. Honestly mate, you should have seen your face! I legitimately thought you were about to crap your pants. Consider that payback for the green hair incident,” Ed cackles.

“Heeeyyy. That washed out okay, there was no permanent damage.”

“Mate, my declaration of love did not in any way _damage_ you,” Ed points out.

“That’s what you think, but I swear my heart muscles have been irrevocably weakened.”

“I got you that good? Maybe I should consider a career in acting.”

“Hey now, let’s not get a big head here.”

“Says the man who believes everyone is in love with him,” Ed snorts.

With that Harry launches himself back at Ed and the two spend the next five minutes wrestling in the dirt, trying to give each other wet-willies. That is until Niall comes up and aims swift kicks at their kidneys.

“Oi, losers, stop rolling around trying to hump each other, you’re scaring all the hot soccer mums away,” Niall says, while side-eyeing a woman in a matching pink velvet tracksuit.

“Speaking of humping –“

“Niall, why are you eating fairy bread?” Harry interrupts, shoving one of his massive hands over Ed’s mouth.

“I think the real question here is why _aren’t you_ eating fairy bread,” Niall counters.

Harry finds comfort in the knowledge that the whole world hasn’t gone completely insane. Niall is making as much sense today as he does every other day. That is to say, absolutely none.

“The man makes a strong point,” Ed chips in from behind Harry’s fingers.

“You’re both utterly bonkers. You do realise this, right?” Harrys says while looking incredulously between Ed, who is still spread-eagled on the ground, and Niall, who is now wiggling his fingers at the woman in the tracksuit.

She huffs, grabs her toddler, and makes a beeline for the carpark. She’s got the right idea.

“Whatever,” Niall replies. “I was told there was going to be football. Is that happening or not?”

It takes fifteen minutes of flailing about in some semblance of a footy match for the inevitable to be brought up.

“So, Harry. I hear that the Russian’s have declared war on your dimples,” Ed states nonchalantly while passing the ball to Niall.

“Ooooh really? That’s a new one! Last I heard was that bat-shit Baptist church in Kansas was preaching that Harry is the devil incarnate and anyone who listens to One Direction is a devil-worshipper.” Niall’s level of enthusiasm for the topic is slightly concerning to Harry. “Oops, sorry mate.”

Harry runs after the wide shot from Niall and sends it sailing back in Ed’s direction. “Someone also cursed a plague upon my house, but I’m not too worried about that one.”

Ed traps the ball under his foot, effectively stopping their quasi-game. “Are you worried about any of them?”

“Nah. I mean, not really. Liam is a bit. But that’s just Liam for you. I’ve had death threats before, we all have. You’d be surprised at the amount of hatred some people can harbor for mainstream pop music.”

Ed nudges the ball over to Niall and then levels them both with an uncharacteristically somber gaze. “Yeah, but mate, some of them seem really serious this time. Like _psychopath_ serious. Liam’s right to be worried. You need to be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Okay, Ed. I’ll look after myself, I promise.”

Harry is touched by the level of concern in Ed’s eyes. He’s become so used to people only befriending him because they want something from _the Famous Harry Styles_ that he sometimes forgets that genuinely wonderful people do actually care about him. Which is exactly why he’s trying to down play this whole death-threat spectacle. He doesn’t want his friends and family to be upset because of his own sheer stupidity. So Harry acts quickly to lift the sober mood that descended suddenly on their kickabout.

“Especially because I know how attached you are to my dick.”

 _“What!?”_ Niall’s foot jerks where he’d been dribbling the ball and sends it flying over Harry’s head, towards a guy sitting reading on a bench.

The guy seems unbothered by Niall’s distinctly girlish screech and neatly traps the ball before it can go rolling off into the pond. Harry jogs over to him, bringing out his most apologetic smile and offering up a “thanks, mate.”

“No worries,” replies the guy, looking up from his book, and that’s when Harry trips over his own toes and nearly eats grass. Because _holy Helen Mirren._

Now, Harry doesn’t think he’s gay. He doesn’t just like boys. He also doesn’t just like girls. (Basically, Harry just likes sex.) And he likes to think he’s avant-garde and progressive in that he doesn’t like to put labels on things just for the sake of being neat and tidy. He believes that love is love, regardless of whom it comes from, and Harry has a lot of love to give. But _fuck._ If wanting to jump this guy like an Olympic gymnast makes Harry gay then paint him purple and stick him in a pride-parade. This guy is just that _damn_ attractive.

From his vantage point upside down on the ground, Harry can see that the guy has smooth tan skin and a jawline he’d like to lick crushed blueberries off of. His cheekbones could slice whole watermelons and his thin lips are the most perfect shade of pink, like he’s been sucking on strawberries for the past ten minutes. And seriously, how hard did Harry hit his head on the way down? Because _what the fuck_ is with all these fruit metaphors? This guy’s head is a total (beautiful, sexual) contradiction because his hair looks all sleep-mussed and cute, like he should be wrapped up in a blanket watching David Attenborough documentaries, while the stubble covering his chin is something Harry would like to feel creating a friction burn on the inside of his thighs. Lastly, there are his eyes. This guy’s eyes are like being out at sea, when all there is for miles upon miles is just the blue of the water and the blue of the sky. Just nothing but _blueblueblue_ stretching on for eternity. And they twinkle like the ocean too. Sparkling with laughter. Sparkling with laughter at Harry. _Oh crap,_ he’s laughing at Harry.

“Um, are you alright down there?” the beautiful, fruity ocean-man asks.

“Yep, just chillin’.” It is not physically possible for Harry to be any more mortified.

“Oh. Okay. It’s just, you look kind of…awkward.” And there goes that theory.

“Uh, yeah.” Harry rolls onto his front and struggles back onto his feet, brushing off the dirt from his knees. He can hear Niall and Ed howling with laughter from all the way over here. “My friends tell me I’m like a baby giraffe that’s just been born underwater.”

The guy tries to cover his snort with a cough. This day has got to go down in some sort of record book. Just when Harry thinks he can’t embarrass himself any more, he goes and opens his trap, time and time again. What pants is he wearing today? Oh, _yep,_ definitely not his lucky ones.

“Anyway, erm, ‘m Harry,” Harry says, sticking out his right hand.

The guy just smiles cheekily and uses Harry’s hand to pull himself up from the bench. “I know.”

“Erm, right.” Harry scratches at the side of his nose.

“Take care of yourself Harry,” the guy says, looking straight into Harry’s eyes. The expression in his is unreadable.

Then he passes Harry the ball, turns around, and walks away leaving Harry with nothing. No name, no number, not so much as a backwards glance.

It’s actually probably for the best that he didn’t turn back to look over his shoulder, because then he would’ve caught Harry shamelessly ogling his _delectable_ arse.

When Harry finally makes it back over to Ed and Niall they’re both lying on the ground, breathless and smirking.

“Not a word,” Harry tells them sternly.

“Should I be jealous?”

“That was four words, Ed!”

“But really guys,” Niall pipes up, pulling himself into a sitting position and looking seriously between the other two. “What’s this about Ed and Harry’s penis?”


	4. Things Turn To Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it's actually going to start getting interesting now.

When Harry and Niall make it to sound check that afternoon Lou takes one look at them and chases them into the showers wielding her daughter’s hot pink mini-scooter as a weapon. Once they return, smelling less like grass and more like apples, Harry considers the idea that maybe he inhales a few too many shampoo fumes than is healthy and that’s where his sudden obsession with fruit metaphors has come from. Hmmm…science.

Anyway, sound check continues as per usual and all is at peace in the world. Until it’s time for the boys to get into hair and makeup and Lou, smirking, points out a rather dark bruise on the underside of Zayn’s jaw that she’s now going to have to attempt to cover up.

And normally that’s not such a big deal. The boys are teenage popstars with the world (and millions of adoring fans) at their feet; they’re going to be turning up in various states of disarray every now and then.

Except this time a squeak is heard emanating from the couch where Liam has been scrolling through Twitter for the last 20 minutes. Once he realises that he’s now the focus of the entire room, Liam flushes all the way down to his collarbones, jerks to his feet, mutters something about making a phone call and nearly hurdles over Paul in his rush to leave as fast as possible.

“What’s up with Payno? That was rather odd, wasn’t it?” Harry, bewildered, asks the room at large.

“T’be honest mate, no more odd than usual. I’ve seen that lad do some strange things in my time.” And with that nugget of wisdom Niall returns his attention to the massive plate of nachos he’s been steadily devouring.

Harry has his suspicions that Niall is secretly part snake and has the ability to detach his jawbone in order to swallow his food whole. Apparently Harry’s in a scientific mood today.

Zayn spends a full minute staring at the door Liam practically sprinted out of and then spends the rest of the time leading up to the show studiously avoiding eye-contact with anyone and everyone.

Harry thinks this day can’t possibly get any weirder.

But _of course_ Harry is wrong. Harry really should’ve learnt by now that if he’s not wearing his lucky undies he should just expect everything to turn to shit. Which poses the deep philosophical question, is Harry going to have to wear one pair of pants for the rest of his life?

The concert starts off as fantastic as any other show. Harry enjoys every single show he has the good fortune of playing, but he especially loves concerts at the O2 in London. There’s just something about playing to a home crowd, where the majority of the audience has been supporting them right from the very beginning, which sends adrenaline scorching through Harry’s veins like wildfire.

Being on stage is where Harry feels most alive. Travelling to new cities is exciting, and meet-and-greets are heartwarming, and interviews are – well, interviews are kind of annoying actually; but absolutely nothing, not one single thing that Harry has experienced in his short life, beats being up on that stage. When Harry’s performing he feels like he’s standing at the very top of the world’s tallest building. Like Tom Cruise in that movie with that guy who gets brainwashed in the Avengers. Nothing can touch him. He could fall 829 meters to the ground and land on his feet. He could conduct electricity and not get burned. Under these lights, singing these words, with these people watching him and these three boys next to him, Harry is invincible.

Which is precisely when three gunshots echo around the arena.


	5. Deceased

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves chickies.  
> Also, I know nothing null nada zilch about the MET, or any law enforcement agencies for that matter, so I've given myself a bit of creative liberty. Are Detective Inspectors even a real thing? _Please_ let me know if they're actually not.   
>  Other than that, I hope you enjoy! xx

The shots are so loud that they drown everything else out. One second the band is playing, the fans are screaming and Zayn is warbling about the story of his life, and the next all Harry can hear is bang after bang after bang.

And then everything just stops. For one sparkling moment Harry feels suspended in time and every single thing around him has gone still and deathly silent. Not even the spiders up in the awnings dare move a muscle. It’s like a giant vacuum just sucked every last molecule of air out of the arena.

And then the moment is broken and the vacuum has been flicked into reverse and all the air, all the sound, all the light comes rushing straight at Harry and knocks him backwards off his feet, his microphone flying out of his hand and his body slamming onto the stage beneath him.

After that everything happens like a tape-recorder stuck on fast-forward. Literally every single person is screaming and running. They don’t know where they’re running to, they’re just moving as fast as they can.

All Harry can do is lie on the ground.

Then more shots are fired and shards of glass come raining down onto the stage. A spotlight has been blown to pieces.

Harry looks to his right and sees Zayn lying on top of Liam, trying to shield the younger boy with his own body. Zayn wasn’t anywhere near Liam when the first shot was fired and Harry wonders absently if Zayn can fly. Maybe Niall’s half snake and Zayn’s half bird and Liam’s half labradoodle. So what does that make Harry? Half dead?

Harry turns his head to the left where he last saw Niall but Niall seems to have vanished completely.

He doesn’t get a chance to look for Niall because then Paul is there, crouching down over Harry’s prone form and looking frantic. And that’s when Harry thinks _shit;_ because Paul _never_ looks frantic, he _never_ loses his cool. 

Paul’s saying something to Harry but he can’t understand because it’s all muffled. It’s like that time that Harry locked his sister in the wine cellar at their grandparents’ house and she was screaming bloody murder on the other side of the door, but all Harry could hear was a faint murmur.

Paul runs his hands quickly over Harry’s sticky chest and stomach, grabs him under his arms and hauls him to his feet. He drags Harry backstage and then they’re running through the concrete corridors under the arena. They round a corner and run headlong into another person. A loud “fuck!” is exclaimed but they don’t have time to stop. Harry just finds a hand, latches on and doesn’t let go.

Paul runs them into a room, and it looks like it’s just used for storing extra seats, but it has no windows and only one door.

“Stay here,” Paul commands Harry, and then the door is slamming closed behind him, and it’s only slightly quieter than the shots still echoing in Harry’s head.

It’s then Harry realises that the hand he’s squeezing the life out of belongs to a blonde Irishman. He turns around to find Zayn and Liam huddled in a corner, Lou clutching Lux to her chest and the 5sos boys in a shaking pile on the floor. The band, the stylist and her team, the sound guys, the road crew, almost everyone is here and no one seems to be hurt. And they’re all looking at Harry with wide eyes.

“There’s so much _blood._ ”

It’s the most terrifying few minutes of Harry’s life before Lou determines that Harry has not been shot, he just bore the brunt of the shattered spot light. There are a few gashes to Harry’s head, which is where all the blood was coming from, and superficial cuts and grazes along most of Harry’s arms, but nothing life threatening.

Harry’s so relieved that he throws up every single morsel he’s eaten in the past 24 hours. He’s also in shock, apparently.

Paul turns up again with paramedics in tow and he relays preliminary reports while everyone gets checked out. Most people have scrapes and bruises acquired from running around in a blind panic and a few are in various states of shock but no one is seriously injured. The paramedics are most concerned about Harry and Lux. The poor little girl is hysterical, she’s so scared she won’t stop screaming, and it’s only when Harry is given the all clear and cuddles her into his chest that she finally calms down a little.

Paul informs the group that the security team has almost finished a sweep of the building and so far they haven’t found anything. Which is good news. No fans were hurt in the attack and everyone got out safely.

It also means no culprit has been found. It seems all the shooter achieved was scaring the peach-pits out of absolutely everyone and then disappearing like smoke in the wind.

Everyone in the room gets another nasty surprise when the door suddenly bursts open. But there’s no masked murderer waving a machine gun around. Just a plain looking guy in a slightly too-big suit.

“Oh, um, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you. Probably had enough of that for one night, eh?” The guy says.

Absolutely no one is amused.

“Right, yes, completely inappropriate, I apologise.” The guy has the good decency to look properly contrite.

“I am Detective Inspector Wilson with the MET.”

And the questions start flying.

“Did ya catch ‘em?”

“Well – ”

“Who was it!?”

“We don’t – ”

“Where did they come from?”

“I have – ”

“Is it safe to leave?”

“If you’d all just – ”

“Are we all going to die?”

“Oh god, Harry’s gonna die!”

“Thanks for that, Niall.”

“If you’d all just _please_ CALM DOWN!” The Detective Inspector roars.

You could hear a pin drop in the room. Even Lux, who up until that point had been whimpering into Harry’s neck, becomes completely silent.

“Thank you. Now, if you all just remain calm, I can tell you what I know.”

Everyone waits with baited breath.

“My men have conducted a thorough search of the entire arena and so far no suspect has been identified. However, we’re collecting all video surveillance footage from every camera in the building going back seven days, so hopefully we’ll have at least some vague description to go off of soon.”

“You really think they’ve been planning this for days?”

D.I. Wilson looks Liam straight in the eyes when he replies, “Son, I think they’ve been planning this for weeks.”

Harry suddenly feels cold all over and he pulls Lux closer into his body. Niall, Zayn and Liam shuffle nearer to him as if on instinct.

“As for who it was and where they came from, at this stage of the investigation we have no clues. As I’m sure you’re all aware, there are many parties who’ve expressed their distaste for a certain individual in this room.”

Harry flushes with shame, from the roots of his hair down to the tips of his toes. He feels the guilt unfurling in his stomach and spreading through every individual capillary, like black ink has replaced his blood. This is all his fault. If he could only learn to shut his goddamn mouth then none of this would be happening. If he had any self-control then his goddaughter wouldn’t be shaking in his arms right now.

He’s just a stupid, impulsive kid who has no idea how the world works and thought that his two-cents was worth more than any others’. Who was he to involve himself in politics he knew nothing about? Who was he to put every single person he loves in danger?

He’s an idiot. And he could cry with how much he hates himself in this moment.

When Lou’s soft arms wrap around him from behind and a gentle “Don’t think like that, love” is whispered into his ear, Harry does start crying.

“We’re almost certain that the intended target of this attack was Mr. Styles, which means that the rest of you should be safe to go home. Nevertheless, I’m advising you all to keep in contact with each other and let someone know where you are at all times until this matter is resolved. I strongly suggest you all stay with someone tonight. We’ll need each of you to make a statement to police about what you saw and heard but I think that can wait until tomorrow. You’ve all been through enough today.”

If Harry could guarantee anything it’s that no one would be going home alone tonight.

As everyone else slowly starts gathering their things together, Wilson comes over to Harry and rests a gentle hand on his blood stained shoulder.

“If you’re feeling up to it Harry, I’d appreciate it if you would come straight down to the station with me. I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

Harry nods numbly and then feels three warm bodies surrounding him.

“We’re coming with you.”

“It’s okay, Zayn, go home. I’ve caused you guys enough trouble as it is, I can do this by myself. I mean it, all of you, go home,” Harry replies, his voice completely flat.

“You’ll never cause us too much trouble, mate.” Harry’s never seen Niall’s eyes so sincere.

“And like hell we’re leaving you alone in this,” Liam growls. And that’s that it seems.

Harry, Liam, Niall, Zayn and Paul head down to Police Headquarters with Detective Inspector Wilson, glancing warily about themselves the whole drive there, as if the mother driving the mini-van next to them might roll down her window and stick out a pistol.

When they arrive they’re lead into an interview room. It’s not like the ones Harry’s seen on the telly, there are no mirrored windows but soft sofas and hot coffee, and he’s glad because he’s terrified enough as it is. If he had to see his own face right now Harry thinks he might break down.

D.I. Wilson comes into the room carrying two large binder folders and a change of clothes for Harry. He’s very grateful for the warm, worn jumper Wilson hands over with a reassuring smile. The smile does nothing but at least the jumper stops his shivering.

Wilson settles himself at the table with Paul while the boys assume positions on one of the sofas in front of it. There’s not really enough room for all of them on the one but the boys won’t let each other go. They’re like penguins; they huddle together when they sense danger.

“Okay Harry, I’m going to ask you some questions and it’s really important that you answer them as accurately as you can, alright?”

Harry nods.

“Liam, Niall, Zayn, if you boys have anything to add just jump right in, okay?”

Liam, Niall and Zayn nod.

“I’m also going to need you guys to use your words.”

Harry croaks out an “okay.”

“Thank you. So, first of all, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the past couple of weeks?”

“Well someone tried to shoot me tonight.”

The corners of Wilson’s lips twitch.

“I’m sorry, that was kind of a dumb question.”

Niall snorts.

“What I mean is have you noticed anything odd in your everyday life? Unfamiliar cars parked on your street, people loitering outside your flat, new neighbours just recently moved into your building? Anything along those lines?”

Harry just shakes his head.

“This is really important Harry, even the most seemingly insignificant details could be vital to this investigation. Try to remember.” A pleading edge creeps into Wilson’s usually steady voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying, but there’s nothing. I haven’t noticed anything unusual.” Harry looks over to Paul and is comforted by his small nod. Paul believes him.

“Okay, that’s all right. Next question, I’m assuming you’ve received death threats, correct?”

Paul jumps in on this one. “Yes.”

“We’re going to need a copy of every single threat that the entire band has received.” 

“I’ve made a call, we’re already on it.” Harry has never met anyone as efficient as Paul. They really should probably give him a raise. No, they should _definitely_ give him a raise. They should give their entire bloody team a raise for putting up with this shit.

“Alright, can any of you boys tell me where the shots originated from tonight? Which part of the arena they first came from?”

“Above the stage,” Niall pipes up.

Wilson turns his head sharply to focus on the blonde.

“Niall, are you _absolutely certain_ that the first shot was fired from _above_ the stage?”

“Yes. I’m 1000 percent positive. It came from right above me head. I swear on all the snapbacks I’ve ever owned. They were right on top o’ me.”

This is the most serious Niall Horan has ever been in his entire life.

Detective Inspector Wilson leans back in his chair and exhales a slow, whistling breath.

The boys exchange glances and a silent agreement is reached. So Liam speaks up.

“What does that mean? It seems to mean a lot.”

“It does, it means a fuck load – uh, sorry.”

Everyone just shrugs. They’ve spent the past 3 years with Niall.

“When my men searched the venue tonight they found bullet casings on the ground. And that is highly unusual for two reasons. The first is that we believe this attack was carried out by a trained professional.”

Zayn interrupts with wide eyes. “An assassin.”

“An assassin,” Wilson agrees. “And it is highly unusual for trained killers to leave their bullet casings on the ground. Normally they remove all evidence, they don’t leave anything behind that could trace back to them.”

“But this guy did?” Harry’s confused.

“Yes. This guy did.”

“Why?”

“Well that’s because of the second reason. The second highly unusual thing was that we found bullet casings in two separate places. We found casings in the gangways directly above the stage and also in the awning on the far side of the arena, opposite the stage.”

Even Paul, the ice man himself, seems surprised by this information.

“There was a second shooter.”

“Yes, there was a second shooter.”

The news settles heavily over the room like a thick fog. It settles even heavier in Harry’s bones. There were two people who were planning on killing him tonight. And countless more are just waiting in the wings for their chance to take a shot at him. There is no way Harry’s getting out of this alive.

He’s _so_ fucked.

“But that’s not the most peculiar part.”

“ _Oh god_ , how much more could there be,” Liam moans.

Zayn settles a hand on Liam’s thigh and nods at Wilson to go on.

“The man above the stage shot first.”

Paul sits up straighter in his chair, Wilson is smiling and One Direction are confused as all hell.

“So?”

“So, the man directly above the stage was at a horrible angle to you boys. There was no clean line to your chest, which is where a killer would have been aiming at. He had a snowballs chance in hell of aiming a kill shot. If he shot first he wasn’t aiming at you, Harry.”

“Well then who was he aiming at?”

Wilson is almost bouncing in his seat at this point.

“I believe he was aiming at the other man. I believe he shot at your would-be murderer.”

“So – so the first shooter was protecting me?”

Wilson seems to deflate before Harry’s very eyes.

“Well, that is a possibility, but it’s not one we’re considering very seriously at this point. It’s more likely that the first shooter was merely eliminating his competition and then planned on taking you out himself but was distracted when the second shooter returned fire. Then when he went back to kill you, you had already taken cover.”

“Oh.” The small balloon of hope that was inflating inside Harry is stabbed mercilessly with a gigantic sword.

“So basically what you’re saying is that I’m still just as screwed as before.”

“No, not necessarily. We’ll have police officers posted outside your building round the clock and I’m sure your own security team won’t let anyone touch you.”

Paul nods viciously.

“Thanks, but we both know that won’t stop anything. I’m young but I’m not that naïve. If people have hired assassins to take me out then I’m as good as dead already, and there’s not much the MET can do to stop it. No offense.”

Zayn, Niall and Liam make matching sounds of distress and throw themselves at Harry.

“Please don’t say that!” Niall begs from somewhere around Harry’s armpit.

Paul just looks on with sad eyes and that’s the final nail in Harry’s coffin. If even Paul has lost hope then Harry may as well off himself now and save everyone else the trouble.

Wilson runs a hand over his head, like he’s searching for the right words in his hair, and when he doesn’t find them he passes over the thick folders from before.

“These are all the records of known hitmen that are operating or have ever operated in Europe. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe one of you will recognise someone.”

The boys spend the next two hours pouring over the folders and not one single face jumps out at Harry.

He’s about to nod off on Liam’s shoulder when he glimpses something out of the corner of his eye that makes him sit up ram-rod straight.

“Flip back, flip back, flip back!” Harry urges, and begins swatting at Niall’s shoulder when he doesn’t move fast enough.

Detective Inspector Wilson comes running back into the room when he hears the commotion from the corridor.

“Harry, Harry did you recognise someone!? Have you seen one of those faces before!?”

“Yes!”

Five voices all scream out _who?_

“Him.”

He looks a little younger in this photo, his hair is a bit shorter and he’s missing the stubble, and there’s a big red stamp marring his pretty face. It’s saying that he’s _DECEASED._ But the eyes are exactly the same, and those eyes looked far from dead when they were laughing at Harry in the park.

And now Harry finally has a name.

“Louis Tomlinson.”


	6. Predator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a heck of a lot of dialogue in this chapter, and I'm not sure if I'm happy with it, but I really struggled to find another way to structure it.  
> Nevertheless, hope you like it!  
> And thanks for reading!! xx

“Oh fuck.”

Detective Inspector Wilson stares at Harry with something akin to dread in his eyes.

“I’ve seen that man before, I swear.”

“Harry, that’s impossible. Louis Tomlinson is dead.” Wilson sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything.

“But he’s not though! He’s alive! I saw him no more than 12 hours ago.” _Christ,_ has it really only been 12 hours? Harry feels weary, like he hasn’t slept in 3 weeks.

“Where? When? What was this man you think was Tomlinson doing?” Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The fingers of his other hand clench into a fist.

“He was – He was at the park this afternoon when Niall and I went for a kickabout with Ed Sheeran.” Harry turns to Niall for conformation but Niall just shrugs.

“It could be him? ’m not sure. ’m sorry. He was too far away to tell. I guess the hair colour is similar. Maybe.”

“No. I know. I’m sure. That’s him.” Harry is adamant, he has never been more certain of anything in his life. He knows those eyes.

“What _exactly_ was the man in the park doing?” Wilson’s voice sounds brittle, making Harry feel as if he’s tiptoeing across thin ice, just waiting for it to crack and send him under.

“Just – He was just – there. He was sitting on a park bench at the edge of the field. He had a book with him. It looked like he was reading.”

“Did the two of you interact at all?”

“Yeah.” Wilson seems surprised at that. “He stopped our ball from escaping into the pond and I thanked him and then we talked a bit.”

Wilson leans towards Harry and cements him to the spot with an unwavering gaze. Everyone else leans forward too.

“What did he say?”

“He said he knew who I was and he said –” Harry feels himself falling through as the ice gives way beneath his feet. The realisation chills him more than frozen water ever could. “He warned me. He looked straight into my eyes as he told me to _take care._ ”

Wilson exhales hard through his nose and then picks up his phone.

He doesn’t bother with a greeting. “I need Interpol.”

Less than 20 minutes later another man in a suit is striding into the room, except this time his suit looks tailored and his watch is a Rolex.

“Boys, this is Agent Robson, he’s the resident expert when it comes to Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry looks the man up and down and something seems out of place. There’s something in his eyes and maybe Harry’s wrong, but it looks like hunger.

“What makes you an expert on Louis Tomlinson?”

When Agent Robson speaks his voice sounds too cool, too smooth, like steel wrapped in satin. Like a knife hidden in a silk-lined jacket pocket.

“I was his partner.”

Niall shrieks and jumps on top of Harry, putting as much of himself between Harry and Robson as possible.

“His partner? _His partner!_ Wilson, why the _fuck_ did you invite his partner here? He’s going to kill us all! Oh my god. _Oh my god!_ You’re trying to kill Harry too, aren’t you! _Oh my god!_ ”

Robson seems to find Niall’s reaction highly amusing, but he laughs with his mouth and not his eyes.

“I was his partner when Tomlinson was with Interpol.”

“Oh.”

Niall slowly flushes a deep red as he manoeuvres himself out of Harry’s lap and Harry smiles his first genuine smile in what feels like years. He squeezes Niall’s knee as a silent thank you but then gets distracted as Robson’s words finally sink in.

“He was with Interpol?”

Robson smirks. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That he used to be one of the good guys?”

“What happened to him?” Liam demands. He shrinks back in his seat slightly when Robson turns to gaze at him. Harry sees the muscle in Zayn’s jaw twitch.

“You might want to make yourselves comfortable, kids. The story of Louis Tomlinson is a long one.”

Robson only starts speaking when he has the undivided attention of everyone in the room.

“Louis Tomlinson isn’t like you or I. He was born and bred to be a killer. Mark Tomlinson, Louis’ father, was an MI6 agent who broke the cardinal rule. He had a family. And he really should’ve known better.

The summer Louis was 10 years old he begged his Dad to let him sleepover at a friend’s house so they could go see the midnight screening of the new release Batman movie. Mark was supposed to say no, the family was leaving to go overseas the next day, but Mark caved. So Louis left and a wet team arrived and opened fire on the Tomlinson house. They say there were so many bullet holes that the second floor collapsed in on itself.”

Harry’s starting to feel sick again, he doesn’t want to hear this story. Not when Robson seems to almost relish telling it.

“So little orphan Louis was taken in by the agency and sent to one of the finest private military academies in the United Kingdom. When he was 16 Louis opted to begin training with Interpol, and when he was 19 he was activated and put out into the field. Which is where I come in. I was less of a partner and more of a handler to Louis.

In 2011, when Louis was 20, he was working a case in deep cover, trying to get in with a suspected arms trafficker based in Bosnia. He was radio-silent for four months when we suddenly got an incoming call from Louis’ emergency line. We couldn’t get a proper reading on his tracker, he was moving too fast through the streets of Sarajevo, and he was frantic, saying he’d been compromised, saying his cover had been blown, begging us to get him out of there.

Then the call cut off. By the time we got a team in to look for him the next day his tracking device had been switched off and there was no trace of him. We put feelers out, tried to find out what happened, but the locals became suspicious so we were forced to pack up and move out.”

“You just _left_ him there?”

Robson looks as if Harry has slapped him. “We had no choice, there was nothing we could do for him.”

“He was 20 years old! He was just 20 years old and he was scared and alone and people were after him and you just _abandoned_ him.” Harry knows a thing or two about being young and scared senseless.

Robson puffs up with self-righteous outrage. He looks as deadly as a blowfish and twice as venomous.

“What would you’ve had me do, Mr. Styles? Tomlinson had been training his whole life for that kind of an operation, he knew the rules. He knew what would happen if he was stupid enough to get himself caught. He put the entire operation at risk by contacting us that night!”

“He was asking for your help!” Harry near explodes.

Robson considers him with a cool sneer and Harry feels the skin over his spine start prickling.

“You seem to forget, Mr. Styles, that this man you’re so intent on defending is at this very moment trying to kill you.”

That sobers Harry right up.

“Now, if I may continue?”

Harry meekly nods his head. Paul squeezes his shoulder. Harry loves Paul.

“As I was saying, after that we left Bosnia and Tomlinson was officially classified as Missing In Action, but no one held out much hope for his survival. That was until a year later when Tomlinson, then 21, turned up in the background of some photos sent to us by the CIA. He caused quite the little stir, didn’t he? The whole agency was in a tizzy, trying to work out why he didn’t contact anyone if he was so evidently alive and healthy and wandering around Israel.”

“Possible trust issues perhaps?” Liam mutters under his breath.

“Then two days later someone tried to kill the Chief Commanding Officer of the Israeli Army. And in all the ensuing chaos we lost track of Tomlinson. He next popped up when someone attempted to assassinate the heir to a billion dollar Saudi oil company. Once again he disappeared in the fallout. More grainy pictures of him surfaced a week before the President of South Africa was shot at. And when someone tried to take out the South Korean President, who do you think was enjoying a short vacation in Seoul?”

“You’re saying you think this Tomlinson guy had something to do with all of these plots?” Zayn butts in.

“We have evidence placing Tomlinson at the scene of 12 separate assassination attempts, all of which were on extremely high-profile individuals. So, yes, essentially.”

“But why?” Harry wonders aloud. “What would he have against all those different people?”

“Don’t you see, Mr. Styles? Tomlinson doesn’t have _anything_ against those people. He spent his whole life honing a very specific skill set. He’s highly trained, extremely resourceful and his greatest talent is killing. He’s got no family, no allegiances, nothing to hold him back. He goes where the money is. He’s a hired gun. And it’s for that reason that Interpol regards Louis Tomlinson as one of the most wanted criminals in all of Europe. Or we did, up until six months ago.”

“What happened six months ago?” Harry’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. Everything Robson has told him about Louis Tomlinson so far has his hands trembling.

“Six months ago Tomlinson finally succeeded in eliminating one of his targets. It was a Russian defector who was being guarded in an MI6 safe house in Switzerland. From the intelligence MI6 could gather after the fact, it seemed Tomlinson didn’t make it out in time before the bomb exploded. So we assumed him dead, and when he didn’t reappear again we believed him gone for good.”

“Until today.”

“Precisely, Mr. Styles. Until today.”

Harry tries to gulp but he can’t swallow past the lump in his throat. He can’t breathe past the lump in his chest. He can’t shift the lump in his stomach. White-hot fear is spreading through his limbs and solidifying everything in his body until Harry feels paralysed.

Because he was home safe, this Tomlinson character. Everyone believed he was dead, no one was searching for him. He no longer had to look over his shoulder. He was _free._

He could’ve changed his name and settled down. He could’ve had a wife and children and football games and clarinet recitals. He could’ve had Halloween and Fathers’ Day and birthday cards and Tuesday Taco Night. He could’ve had a dog that kept getting muddy paw-prints all over his white picket fence. He could’ve had a future.

And he gave it all up, gave up _everything,_ to come out of hiding and take a swing at Harry. He threw away his second chance just to kill _Harry_. But wait… 

“This doesn’t make any sense though.”

“What doesn’t make sense? That made sense. I made perfect sense.”

“No, not what _you_ said.” Robson looks affronted. Harry doesn’t particularly give a damn. “I mean, I saw Louis Tomlinson today. He stalked me in the park. We talked. We held hands.”

A new record is made for the greatest number of eyebrows to raise in perfect unison.

“No, not like that, we just – We kinda – Look, that’s irrelevant, what I’m trying to say is that he was _right there._ He had the perfect opportunity, he had _a million_ perfect opportunities, to just kill me then and there. It would’ve been so easy. But he didn’t.”

Robson doesn’t seem fazed. If anything he looks smug.

“Ah, yes, that’s the thing with Tomlinson; he never takes the easy way out. He always had a theatrical streak, loves a bit of dramatic flair. One case we worked together had us hunting down a car-bomber in Tehran and I had the perfect shot, would’ve got him right between the eyes, but Tomlinson told me not to take it. Said he had something better planned. He thought it’d make more of a statement if we blew up the explosives expert.”

“But – But he _warned_ me.”

“Most predators like to play with their food before they eat it.”

And just like that Harry is done. He’s done with Agent Robson and he’s done with this day and he’s just _done_ with everything.

Paul seems to sense that Harry has just given up because he straightens up and glares at Robson. Paul may be a teddy bear on the inside but he cuts a menacing figure when he wants to.

“That’s enough. These boys need to eat and they need rest and they need to not be here.”

Harry’s eternally grateful to Paul for not singling him out. For some inexplicable but very important reason Harry feels the need to never let Robson see his weaknesses.

“Alright. I suppose I’ll let you go.”

Zayn narrows his eyes and snorts. “ _Gee_ , thanks ever so much.”

“You won’t be much more use to me anyway,” Robson snarls.

“Alright! Let’s get you boys home safe shall we?” Wilson begins herding the boys out of the interview room, and if he notices Liam practically carrying Harry to the lifts, he’s kind enough to pretend he doesn’t.

A unanimous decision is made for all four boys to spend the night at Niall’s flat and the rest of the car journey is spent in absolute silence. It seems everyone is struggling to deal with their own thoughts. Everyone except Harry. Harry doesn’t have any thoughts. His brain has been stretched in so many different directions tonight that he can almost feel it seeping out his ears. There’s nothing left in his head apart from a distant buzzing noise.

It’s only once they’ve got Niall’s front door safely locked behind them that Zayn speaks up.

“Well that Robson dick wins my Twat Of The Year award.”

Only Liam can manage a weak smile in response.

“Yeah. I’m going to bed, night guys.” Harry refuses to look at anyone as he heads towards one of the spare bedrooms before the tears can leak out.

“Harry.” Niall’s soft voice stops him in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Harry, I know what you’re thinking but this isn’t your fault, okay? You didn’t ask for this. And we’re not blaming you. We’ll do anything for you. We love you. You’re going to be okay, Harry.”

And just like that Harry’s spinning around and sprinting back down the hall to engulf Niall in a suffocating hug. Niall doesn’t complain about Harry cutting off his oxygen supply, just pulls Zayn and Liam into a group huddle. The four of them stay like that, just breathing and being together, for what feels like hours. When they finally pull apart no one mentions Harry’s wet cheeks or the damp soaking through Niall’s shirt.

It’s only after Harry has showered and brushed his teeth that it occurs to him to call his family. His mum is completely distraught, panicking down the line, and it takes nearly half an hour of _“Mum, I’m okay”, “Yes, mum, I’m alright”, “Yes, mum, I’m still alive, nothing’s changed in the past three minutes”_ for her to get control of herself. Robin is slightly calmer but Harry can still hear the shake in his voice. Gemma doesn’t say all that much of anything but Harry knows that’s because she’s trying to be the strong one for all of them.

When Harry’s mum finally lets him hang up he moves to the window and peeks around the curtain. He can see two unmarked police cars parked along the street but apart from that nothing is visibly out of the ordinary. Then suddenly goose bumps erupt all over Harry’s naked chest and the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end. He can feel eyes on him.

Harry drops the curtain and scurries away from the window until the backs of his knees hit the bed frame and he’s falling with a thump onto the mattress. His breathing is ragged and he can feel his heart beating in his fingertips. Then his phone lights up with a text.

**I’m sorry about the glass cutting you. That won’t happen next time. Promise.**

_Next time._

Harry imagines that wherever Louis Tomlinson is, he’s licking his pink lips.


	7. Sighted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know.  
> Thank you so much to the people who've been leaving such lovely comments! Y'all make my day.

Harry spends the entire night tossing and turning in bed. He feels as if time is just ticking down to the moment when a masked man will come crashing through the window and smother him with his own pillow. He feels as if he’s being watched.

When he does manage to fall asleep, just as the grey pre-dawn light begins sliding in through the gaps in the blinds, laughing blue eyes haunt Harry’s dreams. He wakes up in a cold sweat, his arousal tenting the sheets. It seems Harry’s mind and body are at odds when it comes to Louis Tomlinson.

Before yesterday, before Harry’s life turned into a poor imitation of a Tom Clancy novel, Management had booked studio time for the boys on Saturday. And honestly, who schedules a recording session for a Saturday? That’s got to be a crime against humanity, it has to. Harry’s going to look it up. Google is all-knowing.

And despite _everything_ that went down yesterday, Management is _still_ forcing the boys to go. They claim that by not turning up the boys would be in breach of their contracts and liable to be sued. Harry tries to point out that _dying_ might also be in breach of his contract, but they don’t factor that into their equation. They’re determined to milk every single cent out of their cash cow before he gets put down.

So it’s with increasingly fraying nerves that One Direction head over to the studio with four black, non-descript vans surrounding them.

Once they finally get inside the building the tension seems to drain out of the atmosphere. Harry can almost believe that things are normal. Almost. Inside the sound booth Harry lets himself go. He pours all the fear, all the anger, and all the confusion of the past 24 hours into the words he’s pushing out of his throat. He loses himself to the music. He sings until his lungs are burning and his eyelids are tingling and his skull is aching. By the time Harry’s done he feels sore and optimistic.

As Harry lies down on the couch while Zayn is recording his solos, he clicks into Twitter and poor Colin nearly blows up. He tries to concentrate on all the worried fans, replying to as many as possible that he’s fine, he’s okay, but there’s an itching in his fingers and somehow he finds himself staring at the one text he has from an unknown number.

**Promise.**

Harry decides to be bold and taps out a reply to the number.

_Where are you?_

Unfortunately, Louis Tomlinson is not as stupid as Harry was hoping he might be. Harry shakes his head at himself. What was he expecting? Of course a trained Interpol agent turned master assassin is not going to be dumb enough to reply to a – 

**On the toilet.**

Oh. Harry feels a giggle bubbling up to the surface. Then Harry feels horrified. He should most _definitely not_ be laughing at texts from the man trying to murder him. He should not be _texting_ the man trying to murder him. _Christ._

Harry slaps himself.

“Um, mate, why’re you hitting yourself?” Niall wanders back in from the kitchen with a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and a poppadum. _Such_ an odd child.

“No reason.”

“Right, because I’m supposed to believe you’re slapping yourself around for the fun of it?”

“Maybe I like pain.”

 _“Whoa,_ dude, too much information! Way, way too much information! I have a delicate sensibility, you know. _Oh god, the images._ I need to go bleach me brain now.”

Harry snorts so hard he starts choking. “Yeah, you’re a regular flower, you are.”

“You should save that kind of pillow talk for your fantasy man. Or woman. I never can predict which you’ll go for next. I tried to come up with a theorem but then I realised I don’t really care.”

There are so, so many things about that statement that need to be discussed. Probably with some sort of professional. But right now Harry goes for the most important one.

 _“Fantasy man?_ What the bloody hell are you on about?”

“Oh please, don’t act all coy with me. I could hear you moaning through the wall this morning.”

Harry feels all the blood in his entire body migrate north to his face. People won’t need their assassins to put him down anymore. He’s about to bleed out through his nostrils.

“So, who is it then?”

Harry sits on the couch, fish-mouthing, wracking his brains desperately for something to say, until Liam walks in asking where Zayn has got to. He leaps onto the distraction like Rose onto a floating door.

“What do you mean? He’s in the booth.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut and prays nobody questions the unnaturally high pitch of his voice.

“No he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Harry, open your eyes and look at the booth. Zayn’s not in it.”

Harry opens his eyes and looks at the booth. Zayn’s not in it.

Suddenly, shouting and the screeching of car tires can be heard coming from the alley behind the studio building, and Liam’s bolting down the corridor towards the back staircase in an instant, Harry and Niall hot on his heels.

It takes them probably less than a minute to reach the back entrance but to Harry it feels like an age.

When the boys bust through the door Harry's stomach plummets out the soles of his feet like he's free-falling. They’re met with the sight of Zayn, bleeding and unconscious, being held up around the middle by tanned, muscular arms.

Harry’s taken aback. In his nightmares Louis Tomlinson was a tall, hulking figure, always looming menacingly over Harry’s shoulder, but seeing him in the flesh once more Harry is reminded that he’s – well he’s actually kind of tiny. And he looks so _tired._ He’s got more stubble than before and his hair’s an utter disaster. His eyes look swollen and bloodshot and the skin under them is purple, paper-thin. His bottom lip is split.

Harry’s shaken out of his musings and back to reality when Liam roars “Don’t fucking touch him!” and launches himself at Louis. He punches Louis in the face and Harry feels more than hears the sickening crack, the vibrations bouncing off the graffiti sprayed brick walls of the narrow alley. The two men scuffle on the ground and more punches are landed on both sides before Liam is distracted by a weak “Li?”

Louis kicks Liam off of him and Liam goes willingly, crawling over to where Zayn’s on the ground with his head in Niall’s lap.

Harry watches as Louis wipes the blood from his cut eyebrow, and then blue is locking onto green and Harry can’t _breathe._ They just stay there, unmoving, staring into each other’s eyes and Harry’s trying desperately to work out what he can see swimming there, in those deep ocean pools. But before Harry can decipher anything he hears Liam’s low voice crooning “Baby” and – wait, baby, _what?_

Harry turns around to find Zayn pulled close into Liam’s chest as Liam tenderly wipes the blood from Zayn’s face.

“It’s okay, baby, you’re alright. I’m here, you’re okay.”

Zayn curls himself around Liam’s body and Liam places soft kisses on his knuckles, then high on his cheekbones, then his eyelids and finally one short sweet peck on his lips.

And out of everything happening in Harry’s life right now, this should not be the most shocking thing. But it is.

Zayn and Liam? Since when? Harry didn’t even know Liam was interested in guys. He’d had his suspicions about Zayn, no straight boy is that invested in his hair, but Harry would’ve sworn under pain of death that Liam could not _be_ more heterosexual.

Although maybe now, given the circumstances, Harry shouldn’t be using that kind of analogy.

Especially when he can hear movement behind him and he whips around to see Louis Tomlinson, advancing slowly towards him, almost within touching distance, and he raises his hands and – and Paul comes crashing into the alley, flanked by four more security guards and about six police officers.

Then Louis is gone, sprinting down the alley before Harry can release the breath he was holding. The police officers open fire and Louis dives around a corner, starting a foot chase that has all the officers tearing after him.

Harry turns back to where Paul is trying to get a good look at Zayn but Liam won’t let him near, he’s almost growling, definitely half animal but no longer a labradoodle.

Somewhere a few streets over an engine roars to life and more gunshots sound out, and then silence falls over the neighbourhood like heavy snow. All Harry can hear is his own short breaths.

“Come on,” Paul says. “It’s not safe out here in the open like this.”

That spurs Liam into action.

They get Zayn back inside the building and a paramedic looks him over. She finds a cut at his temple, his hair matted with blood, and he’s mildly concussed and severely shaken, but he’s going to be fine.

Once he’s lying down with an icepack at his head and Liam at his feet, he begins talking.

“I finished up my solos and everyone else was busy, Harry was on his phone, Niall was raiding the kitchen, Liam went to the bathroom; so I thought I’d just duck out for a quick smoke. I know I should’ve taken someone with me, but when I got out there the alleyway looked deserted and I thought the police would be just around the corner like they said they would be. So I lit up and everything was fine. Then I heard footsteps and turned around and everything went black. The next thing I can remember is that Tomlinson guy rolling me over and picking me up and then you boys were there and Li started acting like the bloody Hulk or something.”

Now that he’s calmed down Liam looks vaguely terrified. “I thought you were dead.”

Zayn just grabs his hand and twines their fingers together, squeezing tight.

Paul looks mildly surprised but he takes it in his stride.

Then he rounds on the police officers and is back to looking threatening.

“Where the _bloody hell_ were you lot? We were told you were supposed to be _guarding_ the place?”

Harry makes a mental note to never get on Paul’s shit list.

“We – ” an officer squeaks and then clears his throat. “We were watching the front.”

“Why the bloody fuck was no one watching the back!”

“We were told it had already been covered.”

Harry can almost hear the steam whistling out of Paul’s ears as he narrows his eyes at the unfortunate police officer.

“Covered by whom?”

“Agent Robson.”

As if on cue Robson comes slinking into the room.

“What’s going on?”

Paul draws himself up to his full tremor-inducing height. “Why don’t you tell me? Where the _fuck_ were you?”

Robson looks around in bewilderment at everyone glaring daggers at him.

“I got a call about Tomlinson. Said he’d been sighted.”

“Yeah he’d been fucking _sighted._ He was _here!_ He was here walloping Zayn around the head!”

Zayn makes a noise in the back of his throat, and when Liam shushes him, he looks desperately at Harry, trying to communicate something in eyebrow movements that Harry’s not catching. He shakes his head and Zayn rolls his eyes and huffs. Even incapacitated Zayn likes to be a drama queen.

“Well did you catch him?” Robson raises his eyebrows.

“Did we – Did _we_ catch him? Oh, _excuse me_ , no we didn’t. We were under the illusion that that was _your_ job, you slimy fucker.” With each word Paul takes a dangerous step closer to Robson until he’s right up in his face. “But next time I casually spot _Interpol’s_ most wanted criminal I’ll be sure to just round him up.” Paul punctuates his sentence with an aggressive poke to Robson’s chest.

Niall’s watching on with pure, unadulterated glee. He looks about ready to start applauding.

Robson just starts stammering.

“Oh save your crap excuses. Boys, we’re leaving.”

Liam carefully supports Zayn into the waiting car and Harry’s never seen him be so gentle with anything. Liam treats Zayn like he’s a soap bubble, like if he even breathes too hard Zayn might just disappear and he’d rather suffocate than let that happen. Harry thinks it’s beautiful.

When they get back to Niall’s flat Zayn declares that they need to talk.

“No, you need to rest,” Liam protests.

“I’m calling a band meeting. _Now._ ” Zayn won’t budge.

Liam sighs at him but settles him onto the couch with light touches anyway. The rest of the boys arrange themselves around the living room.

Then Zayn looks Harry dead in the eyes and says, “I don’t think Louis Tomlinson is trying to kill you.”


	8. A Motherfucking Mountain of Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes I think I'm funny. and then other times it's 2.15 in the morning and i'm delirious. so, sorry about this.  
> as always, muchas gracias mis amores! xx

Liam laughs, then splutters, then looks highly concerned, and then leans forward to wave 3 fingers in front of Zayn’s face.

“Babe, just how hard were you hit?”

“Piss off, Liam, I’m not crazy!” Zayn smacks Liam’s hand away.

Liam retracts his fingers and frowns down at the floor.

“Babe, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. Liam? Love? Please. Don’t be upset with me, I’m _injured._ Baby. Forgive me?” Zayn presses a kiss to the little lines on Liam’s brow. “Forgive me?” Kiss. “Forgive me? Kiss. “Forgive me?” Kiss.

He keeps going, dropping kisses all over Liam’s face, until Liam is smiling into Zayn’s lips.

“Alright! Enough!”

Three heads whirl around to look at Niall sprawled on the bean bag.

“I’m sorry but honestly. I’ve already had to deal with Harry’s weird kinky shit today, I don’t need a free show from you two. Jesus, can no one in this band keep it in their pants?”

Liam smirks. “Just because you have no other option _but_ to keep it in your pants.” Then his smirk slides off his face. “Wait, Harry’s weird kink– ”

“Kill me! Someone is trying to kill me! Let us focus on the man trying to _kill me._ ”

Zayn considers Harry suspiciously for a long moment but nevertheless carries on.

“Yeah, about that, I don’t think he’s trying to kill you.”

“Oh right, and you two discussed this over a cuppa before he decided to clock you with the teapot, did you?”

“ _Damn_ Liam, when did you get so sassy? What happened to innocent Liam?”

“Innocent Liam died right around the time I started sucking your – ”

“I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL! I NEVER HIT SO HARD IN LOOOOOOOVE!”

Once again everyone turns to stare at Niall.

“What? _Something_ drastic had to be done. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Liam snorts. “And don’t Miley know it.”

“Just please don’t get naked.”

“Harry Edward Styles you would be _blessed_ to see me sitting starkers on a bean bag.”

Zayn cuts in with an exasperated “Guys! Can we try and concentrate _please._ ”

“Sorry, go on.”

“Just, I mean, _think_ about it. It doesn’t add up.”

When everyone merely stares blankly at Zayn he huffs and elaborates.

“Why would Louis Tomlinson go to the trouble of sneaking up on me and knocking me out cold just to pick me up again?”

“Um, because he was probably going to ditch your body in a dumpster, babe.”

“But that doesn’t make sense! If he was really there to kill Harry then he would’ve just left me on the ground and gone straight inside to find him. He wouldn’t have wasted precious time trying to move me.”

When no one looks convinced Zayn ploughs on.

“And what about in the alleyway, right? Harry was just standing there, right in front of him, just staring at him. He could’ve strangled Harry with his bare hands if he wanted to. And in the park? He’s had two golden opportunities but he’s never made his move!”

Niall’s the one to shoot down that theory. “But you heard what Robson said, Tomlinson’s a performer. He likes to make a splash. If he’d have killed Harry in the park or the alley no one would’ve cared.”

_“Heeeyyy.”_

“No, sorry mate, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean it would’ve been too anticlimactic, yeah? He wouldn’t have got any attention for it.”

Zayn scowls. “Alright, fine, pretending for a minute that we believe anything that comes out of that git Robson’s mouth, killing Harry in a studio wouldn’t have been dramatic enough either. There wouldn’t have been any witnesses or anything. So if he really does want to make a big production out of it, why would he do it today?”

“Because he fucked up!” Liam jumps in. “Because he tried to be theatrical, he tried to snipe Harry down in front of an arena full of people, but he screwed it up. So now he’s getting desperate and he’s trying to just get it done as soon as possible. Now he knows that Robson’s on to him, he knows he can’t waste time trying to plan anything big.”

Zayn doesn’t seem to have any rebuttal against that so he turns to Harry.

“Harry? Mate, what do you think about all this?”

Harry’s not sure. What Zayn’s getting at seems plausible enough, but Harry’s not certain if he really believes it, or if his judgment is being clouded by blue eyes. Niall and Liam also make good points and Harry doesn’t want to let himself hope. However there’s something there, something niggling in the back of his mind, but Harry can’t find enough puzzle pieces to fit it together.

“I just – I don’t know.”

Zayn groans but then snaps his fingers. “Okay, then what about the second shooter? What about the other person there?”

And then it clicks.

“The other person there! Zayn! Zayn, when whoever it was hit you today, did you scream? Did you make any sound at all?”

“Doubt I even gurgled. I didn’t have the time. I think I just dropped like a stone.”

Harry doesn’t want to hope, but he thinks maybe he might be starting to.

“I heard shouting! When we were inside the studio I heard shouting coming from the alleyway. But when we got there it was only Zayn and Louis. If Zayn didn’t make a noise, and it’s doubtful that Louis was just yelling at himself, then there must’ve been another person in that alley today!”

Liam still looks skeptical but Niall is slowly sitting up in his bean bag.

“And the tires. I heard screeching tires _leaving_ the alley before we got there.” Niall looks back and forth between Harry and Zayn with big eyes.

Harry licks his lips and oh! “And his lip! Louis’ lip was bleeding but Zayn didn’t even get a chance to see who attacked him, he couldn’t have fought back.”

Zayn’s grinning and bouncing in his seat like he just discovered how to skip P.E without getting caught.

“And what about Robson! He was supposed to be guarding the back entrance. Where was he? He just conveniently got called away at the precise time someone attacked me? Fat chance.”

“Zayn, come on, what are you saying? That Robson is somehow involved in all this?” Liam looks distraught, like he just can’t fathom that someone with a badge could ever do wrong.

“You know Liam, I think that’s exactly what I’m saying. Li, you’ve seen the guy, he’s as dodgy as anything. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit him.”

“That doesn’t mean that Tomlinson isn’t trying to kill Harry! He’s dangerous. You all heard what he’s capable of, bloody hell, he _blew somebody up_ for the fun of it! And anyway, him and Robson know each other, they used to work together. Who’s to say that they aren’t back up to their old tricks? What if they’re in cahoots together trying to kill Harry?”

“Did you just say _cahoots?_ ”

“ _Harry,_ take this seriously, please. Louis Tomlinson was trained to be a murderer. You can’t assume that he doesn’t pose a threat to you just because you think he’s cute.”

“What! I don’t – that has nothing to do with this, Liam!”

“Really? Because I saw you practically drooling onto the concrete today. Can you honestly tell me you’re not even the tiniest bit biased? Someone is seriously trying to hurt you, Harry, but you can’t see that it could very likely be him because you’re too blinded by his dazzling smile.”

“What are you saying Liam, that I’m not taking this seriously? That I think it’s all a joke, a game? Someone tried to _shoot me_ last night. _With a gun,_ Liam. I’m fucking terrified _all the time._ Don’t tell I’m not seeing what’s happening here.”

“You’re just a kid, Harry. You get distracted by shiny things.”

“Fuck you, Liam. Fuck. You.”

“Okay, _whoa!_ ” Niall scrambles to his feet, and holds his arms up, one palm facing each of them, as if he thinks he might need to physically get between Harry and Liam. “It’s been a fucking awful two days and we’re all scared and tired and confused. So let’s just take it down a notch, okay guys? We’re all trying to deal with this completely insane situation and we don’t know what to believe anymore, but jumping down each others’ throats isn’t going to help anything. We need to be there for each other. The only way we’re going to get through this shit-storm is if we stick together.”

Liam puts his elbows on his knees, face buried in his palms, and Harry flops backwards onto the carpet, breathing heavily. An awkward tension builds in the room until Harry clears his throat.

“I’m sorry, Li.”

“No, Haz, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those horrible things to you. But it just scares me that you’re so quick to trust this Tomlinson guy. I mean, what do you even really know about him?”

Harry knows Liam has a point. He has a very fucking valid point. But the thing is, is that Harry _does_ trust Louis. And he can’t even explain it to himself, because Louis’ never given him a reason to.

“Nothing, I guess. I don’t really know anything about him. But Li, it’s like you said, he’s a trained murderer, right, but he basically let you beat the shit out of him today. Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t either.”

“I think we can safely assume that there’s a motherfucking mountain of shit we don’t know,” Niall says with a wry smile.

Zayn snorts and Liam chuckles and Harry giggles and within seconds they’re all on the floor. When Niall starts farting with laughter there’s no turning back. All the emotion, all the tension of the past 24 hours melts out of them in hysterical cackles until they’re all lying on the floor, breathless and teary-eyed and serene.

Once Harry’s gathered his wits, he sits up and looks around him. Of course, if Harry had the choice, he’d go back in time to that interview and stop himself from ever opening his big, fat pie-hole. He’d wash his lucky pants, he’d even go so far as to iron them, and then he’d weld them to his arse cheeks.

Unfortunately though, that’s not an option for Harry, and so he’s left dealing with this mess that he’s made. But he couldn’t be more grateful for the boys that currently surround him. He knows he’s beyond lucky to have friends like these, mates that stick by him even in the very darkest of times, and he thanks whatever deity might be up there for these loons everyday.

“Alright then, lads. I’m going to go over to my flat. If I’m going to be staying here for the foreseeable future there’s a few things I need.”

Liam sits up straight away. “We’ll come with you.”

“No you most certainly will not.”

“But Haz – ”

“No, I’m serious this time, Liam. You guys need to rest too, okay. Don't think I don’t see those bags under your eyes. And honestly, coming with me isn’t going to make me any safer, it’s just going to put you guys in the firing line too. I’ll be fine. Seriously, I can handle catching the lift and unlocking a door. I’ll have police officers and security with me anyway.”

The boys accept it, but Harry can tell they don’t like it.

Zayn’s the first to agree. “Okay, fine. But take Paul with you. And I don’t think you should ever be alone with Robson, I really don’t like him.”

“ ‘course I’m taking Paul. And don’t worry, I’m pretty sure Agent Pretentious has more important things to occupy his valuable time than escorting me on a fieldtrip.”

That said, Harry calls Paul and they head over to Harry’s flat with four policemen in tow. The officers enter the building first, enter the lift first and enter Harry’s apartment first. When they give the all clear Paul goes in and triple checks every room before coming back out to stand guard in the corridor. Harry leaves the front door ajar and then makes his way to the kitchen to throw away all the perishable items from the fridge.

He makes his way slowly through the apartment, collecting what he needs from the living room and the bathroom, before he walks into his bedroom just in time to see a curvy little body spring lightly from the window pane onto the carpet.


	9. Shadows and Spotlights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible child and forgot my mum's birthday which meant I had to beg forgiveness with wine. So it's entirely possible that I was slightly drunk while writing this. Yeah...  
> Thank you for reading and for your lovely comments!  
> Hope you like it xx

Harry’s brain has precisely 0.89 seconds to process what is happening before his body is slammed back against the wall beside his bedroom door. He doesn’t even have the chance to _think_ about fighting back before both of his wrists are being pressed into the plaster above his head. He opens his mouth to scream for Paul but then an elbow digs into the centre of his chest, pushing down threateningly over his heart, and a strong hand is being clamped over his lips.

And Harry has never in his life felt more emasculated than in this moment. Because Louis Tomlinson is _tiny._ He’s almost a head shorter than Harry and he’s got narrow shoulders and delicate wrist bones and he just looks so damn _breakable._ But here he is, pinning Harry to a freaking wall, completely debilitating him and smirking whilst he does it. Harry tries to struggle, he tries really, _really_ hard to struggle against Louis’ hold on him, but the most he can manage to do is wiggle his hips around and – oh. It seems pain is definitely a kink for Harry. Probably best to stop rubbing his crotch up against his assailant before this situation can get any more humiliating.

Although it may be too late for that, if the quick glance Louis sends south is anything to go by.

And because Louis is a _dick_ as well as a trained killer, he stretches up on his toes, leans further into Harry’s body and whispers hotly into his ear, “Now, now, don’t get too excited there, popstar.”

The most Harry can do is glare, which Louis snickers at. He’s laughing, the wanker is _laughing_ while assaulting Harry. This guy truly is a psychopath, Harry will never again ignore Liam Payne.

Louis leans back slightly to look into Harry’s eyes and Harry hates himself for finding it soothing. The rational part of Harry’s brain is screaming at him _No, no, no! He is attacking you, goddamn it! You are not okay with this. Panic! I command you to panic! Panic right now!_

The other, much larger, nineteen-year-old-boy part of Harry’s brain is saying _Cute boy pressing you into a hard surface, we can work with this. Wait, what pants did we put on this morning?_

Harry isn’t entirely sure which part of his brain to side with right now.

As if sensing his internal battle, Louis rubs his thumb along Harry’s tense jaw and says in a low voice, “Just stay calm alright, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Harry can’t help but to snort and roll his eyes because, _right,_ Louis’ just crushing his rib cage, but don’t worry, he’s not here to hurt Harry.

“If I move my hand can I trust you not to yell for your body guard?”

Harry thinks indignantly that Louis is in no position to be asking for trust right now, not when he’s just jumped Harry.

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t scream and I’ll move my hand.”

Harry narrows his eyes but nevertheless nods his head very slightly.

Louis stares hard at Harry for a minute, searching for any hint of deceit in his eyes, and when he’s satisfied with what he finds he ever so slowly begins peeling his hand back from Harry’s mouth. He doesn’t move it far, just leaves it resting along Harry’s chin.

“Wow, thanks ever so much for letting me _breathe,_ arsehole.”

Louis giggles in his face and Harry is not amused.

“I’m sorry, were you attempting to be intimidating? It’s just you look like a disgruntled five year old.”

Harry pulls as much air into his lungs as possible and is about to shout at him when the hand on his chin flies back up to his mouth.

“You promised you wouldn’t scream. I trusted you.” All traces of laughter drain from Louis’ face and his nostrils flare dangerously. Harry had momentarily forgotten that at one point in his life Louis killed people for a living, but he’s harshly reminded now.

Harry never could reconcile the descriptions of Louis as a cold-hearted monster with the image of the cheeky, blue-eyed boy that he met in the park. But now he can see it, he can see those killer instincts projected in every hardened feature on the face in front of him. Those blue eyes pure ice.

Harry knows his own eyes must be big and wild and filled with fear right now, so he squeezes them shut as tight as he can and tries his hardest not to think about the heavy pressure on his chest restricting his breathing.

The hand holding Harry’s wrists tightens reflexively and his world narrows down to only the points of contact between his body and Louis’. Harry concentrates on counting each of his laboured breaths.

When he gets to 57 Louis speaks again.

“I just want to talk to you.”

When Harry doesn’t acknowledge him in any way Louis exhales harshly and Harry tries to push himself further into the wall.

“Just, at least give me some kind of signal that you’re listening?”

Harry gives one frightened, miniscule nod.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry for the sneak attack but I just needed a chance to talk to you alone and this looked like my only opportunity.”

Harry waits.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Harry. I know it doesn’t look like it right now and you probably don’t believe me but it’s true, I swear.”

Harry opens his eyes but doesn’t look at Louis.

“I wasn’t the one who hit your friend over the head. I know you probably don’t believe that either, it didn’t exactly look innocent, me standing over his unconscious body, but I wasn’t the one who hurt him. I don’t know who did it; I never saw the guy’s face, he was wearing one of those stupid, cliché balaclavas. When I turned up I saw your friend on the ground with this guy stepping over him and heading for the door, pulling a knife out of the waistband of his jeans. I just yelled and started running, which, honestly, was a pretty fucking stupid thing to do, but it was the first thing that came into my head. Luckily the guy didn’t seem to even consider stabbing me, just clipped me with a mean right hook then legged it the fuck out of there. So I went to try and help your friend. I was just going to get him back inside the door in case anyone else popped by trying to murder you, and that’s when you and your other friends came bursting out. Which, by the way, was so bloody _stupid_ of you guys. You’re a freaking _boyband,_ not superheroes, and if you had come up against an assassin in an alleyway all three of you would be dead meat. And then the one that looks like a puppy jumped at me and beat the shit out of me and I barely even defended myself because I didn’t want to give you any more reason to hate me. So give him my regards when you next see him, he did a fabulous job on my face.”

At this point Harry does look back at Louis, and now that his vision isn’t clouded by unmitigated fear, Harry can see all the bruising and swelling. He’s got deep purple circles under both of his eyes, a mottled yellow and grey pattern adorning his left cheekbone and his bottom lip is red raw and split in two places. But behind all of that Louis’ blue eyes look earnest.

“I was at the O2 last night as well. I’m also sorry about that, I know I scared absolutely everyone half to death. I wasn’t planning on it, I would _never_ open fire in a room full of that many people, especially young girls, but it was either shoot at the guy aiming at you or let him take a chance. And I just couldn’t allow that to happen. Sometimes one shot is all it takes, and what if you had died? It would’ve been all my fault. When he shot back at me a stray bullet shattered one of the lights. I’m sorry about the glass, it doesn’t hurt too much does it?”

Louis gently squeezes Harry’s wrists and then very gradually lifts his hand away. When Harry doesn’t move an inch Louis brings his hand down to trace across the cut at Harry’s hairline with surprisingly tender fingers. Carefully, so afraid of making a wrong move, Harry leans into his touch. When Louis gives him a small smile Harry slowly brings his arms back down to rest at his sides.

“And I know that dickhead Robson is on the case now, and he’s probably told you a million horrible things about me, and while I’ll admit that some of them are probably true, I also need you to know that I’m not like that anymore. Robson thinks he knows all there is to know about me but he doesn’t. Did he tell you about Bosnia?”

Harry watches Louis’ face and nods apprehensively.

“Robson’s convinced that when my cover got blown the arms dealers who were after me flipped me over to their side, that I made a bargain; if they let me live I’d kill the head of the Israeli Army for them. But that’s not what happened. When I called Robson I was speeding through the streets of Sarajevo in a stolen car, trying to get to one of my hidden safe houses. I was scared and I was begging him to just get me out and so I wasn’t paying enough attention to the road. I went through a stop sign and someone smashed right into the driver’s side door and I blacked out. When I came to I had no idea where I was and I was petrified that the wrong people had found me. But it wasn’t the gang. It was this little old Russian man and he just smiled at me and offered me some goulash. Said he made the best in the region.”

As Louis is telling his story his eyes grow distant and Harry can tell that he’s not in the room any more, not really. Harry knows that Louis’ back in Bosnia, seeing everything just as clearly as when it first happened, and Harry doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. But then Louis’ lips pull up into a wistful half smile.

“For a month he nursed me back to health and everyday he’d sit with me and tell me stories in broken English about his childhood and his life. He told me about going to university in Saint Petersburg and living in Moscow and his wife and his children and how they were in a much better place than this world. And for a month I sat in complete silence, too afraid and too ashamed to tell this kind man anything about my life, my life of hunting and hurting and killing. He broke himself in half and showed me everything inside him and he never asked for anything in return. When the month had passed and I was well enough to look after myself he told me I could leave whenever I wanted to, go back home. Which is when I realised that I had absolutely nowhere to go, that I didn’t have a home.”

Louis’ face crumples in on itself and suddenly Harry can see him for what he really is. Louis’ still a 10 year old boy who had everything taken away from him in the span of a single night. He’s lost and he’s broken and he doesn’t have anyone to help him glue the pieces back together. All Harry wants to do is pull Louis into his arms and tell him that he’s there, he’ll help, but Harry doesn’t know the rules. Doesn’t know if he’s allowed to move or touch. So he stays still and just watches, just listens. He has a feeling that these words are as new to Louis’ lips as they are to Harry’s ears.

“My whole life I had been in training or working as an agent. My whole life I’d followed orders and did things, things I didn’t believe in, things I wasn’t proud of, simply because someone else had told me to do them. And after a month of living outside the chain of command, having no one to report back to, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So one day I brought the goulash into the old man’s room and sat down and told him everything. And he didn’t hate me for it, wasn’t disgusted by everything I had done, he just looked me in the eyes and said that no matter what might’ve happened in the past, it was never too late to choose my future. And it took me a while but I finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I looked at all the things I could do, all the skills I had spent so many years perfecting, and found a way to use them for good. I’m assuming Robson’s told you I’m wanted for a couple attempted assassinations?”

Harry nods once more against the hand over his mouth. He wonders if Louis has forgotten that it’s there or if Louis still thinks he’ll scream for help. Harry doesn’t think he could leave now, even if he wanted to.

“Why do you think they were all only _attempted_ assassinations? Why do you think none of those people died?” Louis asks, with the hint of a little pride in his eyes.

But then Louis’ face shifts again.

“Except one. The one person in my life who was there for me, the man who saved me. And I couldn’t save him in return.”

Harry’s never seen anyone look so devastated. Never seen so much pain and anger and guilt and self hatred in such beautiful eyes. Harry can see the fault lines cracking, sees the tremors race out from the epicentre and travel down to Louis’ fingers. So Harry throws caution to the wind and reaches up to cover Louis’ little hand with his much larger paw. He pulls Louis’ hand away from his mouth and slides his fingertips past Louis’ wrist, up towards his elbow. He circles the bone there once and then keeps going until he’s pushing against the muscle in Louis’ shoulder. He reaches up to cup the back of Louis' neck and then draws him in and Louis goes, burying his face in Harry’s neck.

They stay there for a few minutes, leant up against the wall, until Louis sniffs once and then pulls his head back.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, his voice gravelly and slow from disuse.

“Yeah, Harry?” Louis whispers back, and Harry can feel the warm puff of the words against his chin.

“Why me?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you going to so much trouble to protect me? I’m just a stupid kid with a dodgy brain-to-mouth filter.”

“Well, because I think you’re brave Harry. You stand up for what you believe in, what you think is right, even when so many people out there think it’s wrong.”

Louis gives Harry a minute to let that sink in and then ducks his head down to peer up at Harry through his eyelashes.

“Plus, same-sex marriage is an issue I’m personally quite invested in.”

Of course, Harry’s brain chooses that moment to become very aware of the acute lack of space between them. Louis is plastered to his front, their bodies pressed together from knee to collarbone, and they’re still crowded up against the bedroom wall. Harry feels his breath hitch and his pulse spike and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Louis either.

“You know, I was watching you last night, making sure no one tried to get at you while you were sleeping.” Louis dips forward, eyes on Harry’s mouth, until he’s just hovering in front Harry’s lips, breathing the words into the thin skin there. Harry’s becoming dizzy with the proximity but it’s still not enough.

“My favourite part was when you came to the window in nothing but those tiny black boxer briefs.” Louis nudges his nose into the soft pink of Harry’s cheek.

“Normally I hate staking a place out, it’s so boring, spending all night in the dark and cold. But you kept me going for hours last night, just thinking about what I’d do to you if I got the chance.” The shiny tip of Louis’ tongue darts out and just barely brushes against Harry’s upper lip.

Harry swallows as best he can and somehow manages to punch words out of his empty lungs. “What would you do, given the chance?”

“Well…”

Suddenly there’s a hand cupping Harry through his jeans and Harry’s head rolls back against the wall with a thump. He bites down hard on his bottom lip but a tiny moan slips out anyway.

“Harry?”

And then Louis is jumping backwards away from him and he’s left bereft of all warmth and Harry could _fucking kill Paul._

“Yeah! Just gimme a minute!”

Harry turns to Louis but he’s already backing up fast towards the window with an apology written all over his face.

“Can’t you come with me?”

“Oh, Harry, love, I wish I could, _believe me_ I do. But we both know they’d shoot first and ask questions later. I’m much better off to you if I’m lurking in the shadows.”

With every step that Louis puts between them another tiny fragment falls away from Harry’s heart. Because even if, by some miracle, Harry lives through this, Louis’ always going to have to hide, he’ll always need the shadows.

And there's no longer any room for shadows in Harry’s life, the spotlight follows him wherever he goes.


	10. Payback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really just don't even know.

Harry travels back to Niall’s feeling dejected and horny. Which is a fucking awful combination, by the way.

On one hand, Harry feels heartbroken for Louis. He was just an innocent little kid who wanted to go see Batman and the world fucked him over. And the world has continued to fuck him over ever since then. He dedicated his entire adolescence, 11 years of his life, to an agency that thought nothing of abandoning him when he needed them most. He gave them everything and the one time he asked for something in return they just cut him loose. For the second time in his life Louis was left standing in the rubble with nothing but his battle scars. And even though he’d done nothing but give and give and give, when Louis had the chance to decide for himself, the chance to create a new life and a different future, what did he do? He gave some more. He chose to put himself back in the firing line in order to protect complete strangers, strangers who didn’t know he existed and who would never know what he’d done for them. And all of this knowledge leaves Harry reeling. Because how can a person who has experienced so much bad, still be so inherently good? How can a person who has never had anything, constantly give everything? How can God let an angel live out his days in Hell?

On the other hand – well, the other hand just wants to stick itself down Harry’s trousers and go for broke. Just when Harry thinks he’s managed to calm himself down, his traitorous brain will remember the feel of Louis’ tight body pressing him firmly into the wall and his dick will twitch with anticipation.

Harry’s not sure what his dick thinks it’s anticipating. He’ll probably never get the opportunity to be alone with Louis in a room with a bed ever again. Although, if he’s honest, a lack of a bed, or any furniture for that matter, isn’t really a problem for Harry. Just give him a semi-flat surface and he’s good to go.

Of course, once the boys are alone, locked up in Niall’s flat for the night, Harry tells them everything. Well, not entirely _everything_ , he carefully omits the part where he very nearly came in his pants just from the two seconds that Louis’ hand had been on him with two layers of clothing between them.

Liam is still a little hesitant to trust Louis, but he reluctantly agrees that if Louis was trying to kill Harry then he’s doing a pretty shit job of it.

It’s when Harry bids the boys goodnight and retires to his room that something Louis had said to him fully registers in his mind. And, _yes_ , okay, maybe that took much longer to sink in than Harry is proud to admit, _but_ can anyone really blame him for being a little slow on the uptake when Louis was breathing into his mouth and teasing him with his tongue and _holding his dick_ through his trousers?

So Harry eyes the window and an idea starts taking shape in his sex-fixated, teenage mind. Smirking to himself, Harry pulls Colin out of his pocket and begins typing out a message.

_So you mentioned you were watching me last night…_

It takes a minute but then his phone buzzes in his hand.

**Yes. I did.**

_That’s a little pervy, you know. You could get arrested for that._

This time the reply is instantaneous.

**Oi! Let’s not forget that if I hadn’t been watching your window someone could’ve strangled you with your own sheets.**

Harry’s heart falters in its rhythm, but he shakes it off and continues on with his plan.

_So are you watching me again tonight?_

**I could be. Why?**

_No reason._

**???**

Harry wanders over to the full-length window and pulls back the curtain, scanning the street below and the rooftops of the buildings opposite, but he can’t see any sign of Louis. Then Harry ever so deliberately rucks up the bottom of his shirt and rubs softly over the tattoo low on his hipbone. _Might as well…_

His hand pushes higher and higher, trailing up to his bellybutton then over his abs until he reaches his nipples. He tweaks the left one and then pulls the material the rest of the way over his head and off. He knows the pale moonlight will look good on his skin.

His phone buzzes where he left it on the bedside table and Harry walks over to check it, grinning to himself.

**A butterfly, Styles? Really? What on God’s green Earth possessed you to smack a butterfly in the middle of your stomach?**

Harry scowls down at Colin. Not _exactly_ the reaction he was going for. He feigns nonchalance as he saunters back over to the window, but on the inside he’s determined.

Harry licks his lips and pulls the bottom one between his thumb and forefinger, as if he’s considering his next move very seriously. Then he slides his hands back down his torso, making sure to stop and rub over his butterfly, before they come to rest at the waistband of his jeans. Calmly and casually, he flicks the button through its hole and slips down the zipper. He pulls the material of his jeans just a little bit further down, but not too much, just so they’re open and hanging loosely from the jut of his hips, exposing the top and flies of his pants. Then he waits.

Sure enough, he gets exactly what he wants.

**Harry… What are you doing?**

_Me? I’m not doing anything. Getting a bit thirsty though._

Harry abandons his phone by the side of the window and walks into the en suit bathroom to pour himself a glass of water. He grins wickedly as he hears it vibrate once, then again. Before he walks back into the bedroom he looks himself over in the mirror. Curls disheveled, eyes bright, flushed cheeks and red, bitten lips. He looks the part, if he does say so himself.

Going back to the window, Harry checks his phone and smirks.

**What?**

**Harry! Where did you go?**

Picking up the glass, Harry takes a long gulp of water, making sure to tip his head backwards just a bit so the length of his throat is exposed. A dribble of water spills over the rim of the glass and trickles down his chin, dropping onto his chest and racing down the smooth expanse of his torso until it’s swallowed up by the elastic of his pants. And Harry honestly didn’t plan that (if he had he probably would’ve accidentally drenched himself) but he can only imagine it adds to the effect.

That idea is confirmed when his phone buzzes again.

**Finish what you started.**

So Harry puts down his glass and slowly shimmies the denim the rest of the way down his milky thighs. When they reach his knees he drops the jeans to the floor and steps out, kicking them away to the side.

Then he turns around, facing his back to the window, and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his pants, pulling the fabric just slightly until the tops of his cheeks are bared. Taking a deep breath, he grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes closed, and pulls them the rest of the way off, bending at the waist and curving his spine so Louis gets the perfect view.

His phone buzzes.

**Holy shit.**

So Harry straightens up, sends a cheeky wink over his shoulder and reaches behind him to pull the curtain firmly back across the window.

His phone nearly vibrates right through the floor and Harry ignores every text until Louis is calling him.

“Enjoy the show?”

“You fucking _tease._ ”

“Well, I figured I had to get you back somehow.”

“Get me back for what?” Louis splutters.

“For this afternoon! You got me all hot and heavy and then just left me there! Do you know how awkward it was walking back out to Paul with such an obvious erection?”

“That wasn’t my fault! We were interrupted.”

Harry scoffs. “Oh please, you knew _exactly_ what you were doing. You probably would’ve left me just as frustrated, just as desperate, even if we weren’t interrupted.”

Louis takes a moment to reply and when he does his voice is much deeper than before. “You’re desperate for it?”

“I – uh – I never said that.” Harry’s so thankful this conversation is taking place over the phone so Louis can’t see his flaming cheeks.

Louis chuckles darkly. “Babe, that’s exactly what you said. And anyway, what makes you so sure I wouldn’t have just dropped to my knees for you?”

Harry opens his mouth but can’t come up with any form of response to that. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“So what are you wearing?”

Harry snorts because _really?_ “Louis, you know perfectly well that I’m not wearing anything.”

“Okay then, where are you?”

“On the bed.” Harry pauses. “On my back. I’m all spread out.”

Louis groans deep in the back of his throat.

“Harry, babe, come on. Open the curtains back up.”

“No can do, Lou,” Harry tuts.

“Please, Haz. _Please._ ” And Harry has to cover the receiver so that Louis can’t hear him doing a little happy dance on the bed. He didn’t think it’d be this easy to make Louis beg.

“ ‘fraid I can’t do that.”

“But _why not?_ ” Louis whines.

“Because that’d be unfair, Lou. I want to see you too. I want to watch you.”

Harry can hear Louis breathing heavy down the line. When he speaks again his voice sounds like sandpaper and it sends shivers shooting up Harry’s spine.

“Okay. How about – Will you let me hear you?”

It takes Harry a minute to catch his breath but even then his words come out hoarse.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can – I can do that.”

“You will? You’d do that for me? You’ll let me listen to you while you touch yourself?”

Harry has to bite his knuckles to stop himself from moaning at just the thought. His dick is starting to swell where it lies against his thigh.

“Yes, Louis. For you.”

Louis’ the one that ends up moaning first.

“Okay. Alright. Whenever you’re ready then, babe.”

Normally, when Harry’s doing this by himself, he’ll take his time working himself up, pinching at his nipples and trailing his fingers over his thighs. But tonight, with Louis’ voice providing more than enough stimulation, Harry goes straight for his dick. He gasps when he finally gets a hand around himself.

“How does it feel?”

“Feels – Feels good. Feels hard.”

“Move your hand for me, babe.”

So Harry does, stroking slowly up and down with a loose fist. When his palm slips up to rub over the tip he lets out a shaky exhale.

“I bet you’re wet. Are you wet, Harry?”

“Yeah, I – oh, god – I’m so wet for you, Lou.”

Louis lets out a “ _fuck_ ” that’s more of a whimper than anything else and Harry can hear rustling and the sound of a zipper.

“Are you touching yourself too, Lou? Did listening to me get you hard?”

“Yeah. But I’ve been hard since you started stripping,” Louis moans, his breathing ragged.

Harry moves his hand faster, tries to match his pace to Louis’ rapid breaths, picking up a rhythm as slick sounds fill the room.

“Oh shit, _Harry_ , I can hear it.”

And Harry knows this isn’t going to last much longer. He’s been far too horny for far too long and any stamina has been chucked out the window. When he dips his thumb into the slit he can feel it building, a tingling in the base of his spine that sends small sparks of pleasure rocketing through his bones.

“ ‘m close, Lou. _Fuck_ , so cl– close.”

“Me too. Me too. _Harry._ "

“Yeah, Lou? You gonna get yourself off to the sound of me coming?”

Except it doesn’t work out that way, because Louis comes first, moaning Harry’s name long and low into the phone. And the thought that Harry did that, he made Louis sound so helpless and wrecked with nothing but his words, sends Harry over the edge. His orgasm rolls though him like a wave, peaking and then crashing down around him, filling his ears with the rushing of blood and sucking all the air from his lungs.

When Harry finally resurfaces it’s to the sound of Louis panting into his ear.

“Well fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“You realise, Harry, that I’m now skulking around in the shadows, with my pants around my ankles, covered in my own come, and it’s entirely your fault.”

And Harry’s laughing before he’s even caught his breath, snorting and hiccupping in a way that he’s sure is not extremely attractive.

“I like your laugh. It’s really cute.” The sheer amount of _fond_ in Louis’ voice has Harry’s throat constricting.

Because Harry has known Louis less than 48 hours and for the majority of that time Harry thought Louis was trying to murder him. And yet he’s already growing attached to this cheeky, lethal, heartbreaking boy. But he _can’t_. He can’t let himself dream of a future together when Harry is internationally famous and Louis is internationally wanted.

“I should probably let you go take care of that.”

Harry knows Louis senses the abrupt change in his mood, but Louis doesn’t push. “Yeah. I guess I should get myself cleaned up, huh?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay then.”

“Goodnight, Louis.”

“Sweet dreams, Harry.”

“Wait Lou!”

“Yeah Haz?”

“Just – Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

There’s a long pause, long enough for Harry to grow nervous, worried he’s said the wrong thing. But when Louis speaks again his voice is soft.

“Of course, Harry. Anytime.”

Falling asleep, Harry again feels as if someone is watching him. But this time, the thought of who that is has him sleeping more peacefully than ever before.

Harry wakes up the next morning feeling refreshed and relaxed, like only a good orgasm can accomplish. He sings in the shower and grins as he brushes his teeth and wiggles his little butt around the room as he squeezes into his ridiculous jeans.

All his happy vibes freeze in mid-air and drop to the floor when he walks out of his room to find Robson making himself at home on the couch in an otherwise empty apartment.

“Hey mate. It’s just you and me I’m afraid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if that was stilted or horribly written or just embarrassingly cringeworthy :/


	11. Falling

Harry laughs, Robson stares and his somewhat hysterical giggling chokes off into a strangled cat kind of gargle because _what?_

Harry can’t be alone with Robson, he just can’t, that’s absurd. Zayn would set his own quiff on fire then dance around naked to ‘The Circle of Life’ before he left Harry alone with “that snivelling, conniving, muculent asshat.” Sometimes Zayn likes to use his big words. Sometimes Harry likes to use innovative metaphors. They're a creative bunch.

The point is that there’s no way in hell the boys would let Robson anywhere near Harry unless – oh shit. _Fuck._ What has Robson done to the others?

With his heart relocating to his oesophagus, Harry furtively scans what he can see of the apartment looking for upturned furniture, fallen pot plants, shattered vases… blood. When he can’t see any obvious signs of a struggle Harry looks back to Robson to see him in the same place, still scrutinising Harry.

“Are you alright over there?” Robson asks, standing up slowly from the sofa.

“Perfect!” Harry squeaks and then takes a not-so-subtle step backwards.

Robson raises an eyebrow and moves forward towards Harry, who backs himself into the wall, glances frantically to his right and then slides sideways into the kitchen. He figures it’s the safest room, what with its large array of makeshift weapons. Harry strides over to the kettle, located so conveniently next to the knife block, and vows never to doubt Niall’s strange appliance placement system ever again.

“Erm, tea?” Harry offers, while trying simultaneously to keep an eye on Robson and also look anywhere other than at him.

“No, thanks,” Robson replies, leaning casually against the kitchen island and, thankfully, staying there.

Harry vaguely recalls that-guy-on-Criminal-Minds-who-is-now-possibly-dating-his-ex-girlfriend saying one should always keep potential murderers engaged, keep them talking, ask them questions, try to tactfully distract them from stabbing you. However, can anyone really trust male models on Criminal Minds? Is any of that shit relevant in the real world or is it all over-dramatised, made-up nonsense? Harry doesn’t know. _Christ,_ Harry wins awards for “Most Artfully-Tousled Hair” and “Cutest Dimples”, he’s not cut out for this life-threatening shit.

Harry disguises his trembling hands with the pretense of brewing himself some tea and decides that talking can’t make the situation worse.

“Um, so, uh, where are the others?” Harry sends prayers to every god he can hazily remember from Religious Studies that the answer isn’t “in the freezer.”

“Oh you boys had a radio interview this morning, but considering the current situation everyone thought it best if you didn’t go. Safest option. Plus you got a bit of a lie-in, which is always a bonus, right?” Robson smiles and Harry is reminded of every serial killer mug-shot he’s ever seen splashed across newspapers.

“And they, uh, they left. Me. Here. With you. Did they?”

Robson lifts both eyebrows but answers anyway. “Yeah. They were very insistent about your safety, too. Wouldn’t leave until there were about six units converging on the place. They wanted you surrounded on all sides.”

Harry heaves a massive sigh of relief.

“But I sent them all back.” Robson straightens up. “I can deal with you on my own.”

Harry’s mug slips from his hands and crashes to the floor, sending tea and porcelain flying everywhere.

“So I – We – It’s really just us here?” Harry croaks.

Robson’s grin unfurls on his face like a snake slithering out of hiding.

“Yeah Harry. It’s just you” Robson advances towards Harry “and me” he loosens his tie “and no one will be back here for hours.” He braces his arm against the countertop next to Harry’s side.

Harry doesn’t even think, just grabs the kettle from behind him and hurls it at Robson. Robson jumps back screaming, clutching at his sodden shirt sleeve, and Harry scrambles as fast as he can back down the hallway, slamming into his room and locking the door behind him. He dives across his bed and grabs for his phone, shaking as he dials.

Zayn _fucking finally_ picks up with a “Harry we’re right in the mid-” and Harry cuts him off, shouting desperately down the line.

“Zayn! Robson! FUCK Robson’s here!”

“Harry, what the hell, we know, we left him and some pol-”

“No Zayn! He’s here alone! _He’s got me here alone!_ ”

“Oh _fuck_. Shit! What happened?”

“He sent everyone else home and it’s just me and him and I hit him with the kettle and now I’ve locked myself in my room.”

“ _Shit_.” In the background Harry can hear Liam and Niall demanding to know what’s going on. “Fuck, Niall, fuck, call Wilson and send him over to your place now.”

“What? Zayn- ”

_“Fucking now Niall!”_

There’s a bit of a scuffle, or what sounds like it, and then Liam is speaking calmly into his ear.

“Harry, call Louis.”

How the fuck Liam is able to stay calm right now is far beyond Harry. “What?”

“Call Louis. He’s probably sitting right outside the building anyway. He’ll be able to get there much sooner than Wilson and his team. Hang up the phone and call Louis. Do it now Harry.”

Harry’s a fucking _idiot_. Why didn’t he think of that?

The last thing he hears before he ends the call is Niall yelling, “Wilson’s coming for you Harry!”

Harry nearly rockets up to the roof when a sudden banging starts up at his door.

“Harry! Harry, what the fuck!?” Robson starts kicking at the wood.

Harry dials Louis’ number and when he picks up on the second ring all Harry can do is whimper down the line.

“Harry? Babe, what’s wrong?”

Robson’s pounding sounds like thunder in the hall.

“Fuck, Harry, what’s happening?” Harry hears a car door slamming.

“Robson he’s – Robson’s here and we’re alone and he’s trying to get in and the kettle and please, Louis I need you, please.”

“Harry, babe, where are you?”

“Niall’s, Louis! I’m at Niall’s! I thought you were too! Shit, _fuck!_ ”

“I am Harry, I’ll be right up, I’m coming now.” Harry hears shouting and a dull thud and he’s pretty sure Louis just punched out the doorman. “I mean where are you in the apartment?”

“I’m in my room. I locked myself in.”

“That’s perfect babe, you did the exact right thing. Just stay in there okay? Don’t come out until I tell you.”

“Harry! Open the _fucking door!_ ” Robson sounds like he’s throwing his whole body against the flimsy wood.

“Louis, please.”

Heavy breathing and slapping feet is all Harry can hear and then the door is flying off its hinges and Robson is bursting into the room.

He straightens up and looks wildly around until he spots Harry curled up on the floor in the gap between the wall and the bed. He exhales hard and when he speaks his voice is soft and smooth and deadly.

“Harry, why would you do that?”

He stalks towards the bed like a panther in the grass. His eyes glow.

“That wasn’t very nice of you.”

Then there’s a blur of black and tan, a body flying through the room and Robson’s on the carpet with a red-faced, panting, _furious_ Louis perched on top of him.

“Tomlinson. I should have known you- ” But that’s all Robson can get out before Louis’ bringing the butt of a gun down onto his temple with a sound like a branch snapping. Robson falls limp and lifeless under him.

Louis just sits over him, seething and staring, until a ragged sob breaks the silence in the room and he looks to Harry, his gaze murderous.

All the red drains out of his blue eyes and he crawls over to Harry, wrapping him up and letting him shake apart in his arms.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay. You’re alright now. I’m never letting anything happen to you. You’re safe, you’re alright.” Louis rubs both his hands in long strokes up and down Harry’s spine until Harry’s lungs stop shuddering and the echoes in his ears die down.

“Come on darling, let’s get you off the floor now, we need to get out of here before he wakes up.” Harry’s never heard anything as beautiful as Louis’ voice, so he follows it, letting it guide him up and out of the room. He grabs onto Louis’ small hand with both of his and Louis tugs him gently down the hallway towards the front door.

They’re almost there, Louis’ leading them around the corner, when a loud crack whips through the apartment and Harry’s world is splintering. He doesn’t know where the shot came from or who fired it. He doesn’t know where he is or who he is or what or why or how. All Harry knows is that beautiful, lethal, indestructible Louis is falling. Louis is falling, falling, falling.

And Harry is on his knees until he’s being dragged backwards by the throat, a hand wrapping around his neck and ripping him away from Louis, flinging him back onto the polished hardwood of the hallway. A knee to the gut punches all the air from his lungs and the tip of a blade presses between his rips, poised, ready to slice and puncture and kill.

Harry looks up into the raw, savage eyes of Detective Inspector Wilson. Who smirks.

“I know right, shocking isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	12. Stay With Me

Harry doesn’t have room in his brain to wonder about _what the actual fuck_ is going on because he can’t see Louis. He _can’t see_ Louis. He can’t see _Louis_ and he’s blindly panicking.

And because Harry can’t think through the fog of pure terror clouding his mind, he concentrates on feeling. He concentrates on the dull ache of his shoulder blades being forced into the hardwood boards; notices the throbbing at the back of his skull where his head hit the floor; focuses on the biting sting of his fingernails scratching at the ground; feels the bruising pressure of Wilson’s weight in his guts; the hand around his throat, crushing his windpipe and making his lungs burn; the sharp, stabbing pain of the knife cutting into his skin, not yet enough to kill, more than enough to hurt.

But none of that hurts as much as the agony in Harry’s chest, right where his heart should be, where it once was, before it got ripped from his body. Before Louis took it with him as he fell.

Harry’s heart lies on the floor of Niall’s apartment with Louis, the both of them broken and bleeding.

And Harry knows that he doesn’t have a hope of living without his heart, so he struggles. He struggles against Wilson with everything he’s got left in his body, uses the pain to fuel the anger and hatred, the fear and desperation. The adrenalin pumps through his veins in the place of a heartbeat and Harry throws it all at the body on top of him.

He has to get over to his heart, has to make sure it’ll be okay.

He swings his fists at Wilson’s face and writhes with his entire lower body, bucking his hips and trying to knee Wilson in the back. But Wilson has the advantage, he’s too strong and he’s got too much leverage. Everything Harry has left isn’t enough, as Wilson simply draws his knee back a fraction and brings it smashing down into Harry’s stomach again. He presses down harder with the hand around Harry’s neck and shoves the blade further into the flesh between Harry’s ribs, leaving Harry winded and gasping, trying to blink back the spots popping and fizzing in his vision.

“You’re so _fucking dumb,_ Styles, you know that?” Wilson pants, and Harry can feel the spittle landing in flecks on his face.

“What do you think you’re gonna do, huh?” He laughs, high and mocking, but his eyes are manic.

“No, honestly, I am genuinely curious as to how you think you can possibly stop this situation. Because from where I’m sitting – which is on top of you, holding a knife to your heart – there are only three possible outcomes to this scenario. Let me run you through them.” He’s loving this.

“Option A: you continue to try and fight me off, in vain I might add, because _it’s not going to happen_ , Harry. I have a hand around your throat, a blade at your chest and a knee slowly crushing your internal organs. I can think of at least seven different ways to kill you in this very moment. _You’re not getting out from under me, Harry_. But you can keep trying and we’ll just wait here while your little boyfriend bleeds out on the floor. And then I’ll let you up and you can go weep dramatically over his still warm body for a little while and then I’ll get bored and kill you too. Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad; add a little panache, a little teen angst. Maybe I can destroy my cake and eat it too.” Wilson’s eyes stare down at Harry, fuzzy and out of focus, like he’s seeing it all play out in his mind.

“Option B: I get tired of your pathetic heroic attempts and just stab you now. And then the boyfriend is the one that gets to watch all the life slowly drain out of his lover. Now _there’s_ a plot twist. Maybe he’ll use the last of his dying breaths to crawl over to your body. Maybe he’ll bleed out holding your lifeless hand. It’ll be like Shakespeare wrote it himself.

Option C: your boyfriend is already long dead, Harry, and you’re putting up a fight for nothing, just embarrassing yourself before I take pity on you and plunge this knife right through your ribs. Either way it goes Harry, it all boils down the same. You _are_ going to die. And so is he.”

“Fine then!” Harry wheezes. “Do it! If you’re going to kill me you might as well just _do it_. Save me from having to sit through your psychobabble.”

A mixture of emotions flit through Wilson’s eyes. Harry can see shock, like he wasn’t expecting it to be this quick, but also disappointment, like he was hoping to drag it out longer, make it fun, have his moment.

“No!” comes a gasping cry from somewhere behind Wilson, who whips his head around to the source of the noise.

It’s weak and it’s pained, but it’s there.

Harry’s heart is still beating.

“Well, well, Tomlinson, look at you, still kicking.”

“Yeah,” Louis chuckles, but it’s choked. “You’re not as good a shot as you think you are.”

“I’m very sorry about that. When I shoot you again I’ll make sure it’s right between the eyes.”

Harry’s eyes go wide at that and he makes a strangled sound as he tries to start up the fight again, but Wilson simply puts more of his weight onto the hand at Harry’s throat and watches as Harry’s lips turn blue.

“The O2?” Louis’ voice is strained and quiet but it distracts Wilson enough and he eases off, Harry left spluttering and gulping under him.

“What?”

“Was that you? The other shooter? At the O2?” Louis’ talking slow, having to stop and take panting breaths between words.

Wilson hesitates, he glances from Louis to Harry and back again, but then he curls his lip up and bares his teeth in a semblance of a smile. He’s getting his chance to bask in the moment.

“Yeah, yeah that was me. And it was pretty damn surprising to be called back to the scene of my own crime not half an hour later, I must say. But I figured, hey, it might be easier, being on the inside.” He swivels his face back to Harry. “Fucking wasn’t though. You were always fucking surrounded, by your little friends and that lump of a bodyguard, you were never left alone,” he growls.

“So that was you then, at the studio? In the alley?”

“Yeah, that was me again.”

“I gotta tell you mate, that was a fucking idiotic ski-mask,” Louis laughs, but it’s thin and reedy and wrong. “Like, honestly, were you _intentionally_ trying to be as embarrassingly clichéd as possible?” And seriously, _what the fuck_ is he playing at?

But then Wilson growls again and sits up higher, lessening the pressure on Harry’s throat even more, and _oh_.

Harry wants to kiss and slap Louis all at the same time. Because can’t this boy _ever_ be selfish? Even after he’s been shot he’s still trying to give more of himself away, trying to protect Harry by focusing the danger at himself.

“Well I gotta tell you, _mate_ , that I’m going to seriously fucking enjoy watching you die,” Wilson spits. “Every time, _every fucking time_ , you were always there. You were always one-upping me. But not this time, Tomlinson. No. This time I _am_ going to kill this little faggot. And I’m going to kill you too, and then I’m going to blame it all on that fucking _douche_ Robson.”

Wilson turns back to Harry but this time there’s no perverse glee in his eyes. There’s no more fooling around. Wilson had his moment and now he’s following through on his promises. He draws the knife away from Harry’s chest and over his head, ready to strike.

“Wait!” Louis screams, with more desperation than before, and Wilson falters. “Why? Why are you doing this? Why Harry?”

“ _Why?_ ” Wilson repeats incredulously. “Don’t you know the bounty that’s been put on this kids head? How much people are willing to pay to see this idiot dead?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies. “I’ve heard.”

“What happened to you, Tomlinson? Where’s this cold-blooded killer that everyone is so afraid of?”

“He never existed.” And with that Louis pushes himself off the floor and lunges for Wilson.

But he’s injured this time, he’s too slow, and before Harry knows what’s happening the knife is gone from Wilson’s hand and he’s pulling a gun from the waistband of his jeans. It’s so fast, too fast for Harry to do anything, and then another crack is echoing through the apartment.

The gun is pointing away from Harry, but a bullet goes ripping through his heart.

And all Harry can do is watch helplessly as red blossoms across the white t-shirt of his heart. Watch as his heart’s eyes widen and his heart’s jaw hangs open in a silent scream. Watch as his heart crumples to the floor once more.

Harry doesn’t scream. There’s no crying or fighting, because he doesn’t want to struggle anymore. He doesn’t think or feel. Harry’s heart is gone and it’s left him empty.

Wilson turns back to Harry and Harry looks up at him one last time. Then he breathes in through his nose and closes his eyes, waiting.

Two more gunshots ring through the apartment.

Harry’s a little surprised truthfully, because he thought it would hurt more than this.

Then a sudden, crushing weight is dropped onto his chest, and yes, that’s more like it.

“Harry! Shit, shit, shit! _Fuck_ , no, come on.”

The weight begins shifting and Harry opens his eyes back up to find Robson pushing Wilson’s body off of him. There’s two holes in Wilson’s chest and a gun lying next to Robson’s knees.

“Oh _thank fuck_.”

“Louis,” Harry gasps.

“It’s alright, Wilson dealt with Tomlinson.”

“ _No!_ ” Now Harry does start screaming, pushing Robson away from him and scrambling onto all fours. “Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis, _Louis!_ ” 

“Harry, what-” 

But Harry’s got no time for Robson, not when Louis’ lying on his back on the floor, pale and covered in his own blood. Harry sits beside him, gently cradling Louis’ head in his lap, and pushes the damp hair from Louis’ sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he chokes and sobs and shakes.

“Hey.”

Louis is drenched in sweat, the skin around his mouth is pulled taught and white, his teeth have turned red with blood, and his blue eyes no longer sparkle, they’re gun metal grey, dull and faded.

He’s still the most exquisite thing that Harry has ever seen.

“ _Oh god_ , Louis, I am so fucking sorry.”

“No, Harry, don’t be. This isn’t your fault, okay, none of it is.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

“But it is though.”

Louis just ignores him. “Harry, can you do something for me?”

“Anything, Lou, I’ll do anything for you.”

“Stay with me. Please, Haz. I don’t want to be left alone again.”

Harry presses one short, soft, barely-there kiss onto Louis’ blood red lips.

“I’ll never leave you.”

Louis smiles and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. My life right now is just one big, smoking pile of ugh.  
> And I'm not really sure if I'm happy with this. It feels clunky in some places, and I just noticed some inadvertent rhyming at the most inappropriate of times. Oh well.  
> I kinda wanted to get this out so that I wasn't leaving you all with a cliffhanger for too long.  
> So what do I do? I write another cliffhanger of course! I'm sorry. Honestly. I think it's turing into a condition at this point.  
> I'm also sorry for this unnecessary rambling just now. But it's 4.30 in the morning and it's exam week and I'm legitimately about to fail university and cry and just ugh. Ugh.  
> But thank you for reading. And to those of you who are sticking with this and leaving such lovely comments, thank you so much. When my parents yell at me for failing miserably I'm gonna need you guys to back me up, okay? Great, awesome, thanks again! Love you lots xxx


	13. Everything

It takes less than five minutes for an ambulance to arrive at the apartment, and even though Robson tries his best to stop the bleeding, by the time it gets there Louis is no longer responsive. The rest of the boys come bursting in and Niall pauses halfway through launching himself at Robson, voice cut off mid war cry, when he sees Wilson dead on the floor and Harry clinging to Robson’s jacket. Harry would laugh at his shell-shocked expression, but Harry can’t see anything that isn’t Louis.

He rides in the back of the ambulance and three paramedics are needed to physically drag him away from Louis once they reach the hospital. Louis is taken straight into surgery and Harry refuses to move away from the emergency doors until Liam is forced to actually pick him up and carry him gently into the waiting room.

He curls up in Liam’s lap and Niall and Zayn squish in on either side so that Harry is surrounded, his boys trying to literally hold him together, keep him from falling apart. He’s hemmed in on all sides by body heat but Harry still feels too cold.

“Harry,” Zayn murmurs, softy pushing the limp hair off of Harry’s forehead, “babe, what happened?”

He opens his mouth but all that comes out is a dry croak.

“It was Wilson.”

Robson sits down opposite them carrying four vending machine coffees in a cardboard tray and a chamomile tea, the latter of which he passes over to Harry. Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach anything, but at least the piping hot tea warms his bones a little. The other three still seem apprehensive of Robson as they gingerly accept their coffees.

“It was Wilson the whole time,” Robson continues on.

Zayn has to reach over Harry and make a hasty grab for Niall’s coffee before his trembling hands shake the liquid right out of the cup.

“Oh my god. And, and we told him to go to my flat, we told him you were there. _We delivered you straight to him_.” Niall turns even paler than usual, which is a feat in and of itself, and turns big, pleading eyes on Harry. “I am so, _so_ sorry.”

Harry shakes his head and tries to get his throat to work like it’s supposed to. He can’t let Niall blame himself for this, can’t let anyone else feel guilty for this. This was entirely Harry’s fault. Try as he might, he can’t seem to stop hurting the people he loves.

“Not your fault, Ni.” It’s the first time he’s spoken since he told Louis he wouldn’t leave and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears, too deep and too heavy, hollow. “You didn’t know. No one knew.” The words taste bitter and they burn his lungs on the way up.

He reaches out, taking Niall’s hand in his own and Niall squeezes tight, too tight, but Harry is grateful for the pain. It grounds him, forces the feeling back into his fingers, and takes a little bit of the pressure off his heart.

“If you don’t mind me asking, um, why _did_ you call Wilson? You guys knew I was looking after Harry.”

The atmosphere in the waiting room shifts from despondent to _extremely_ awkward in the blink of an eye. Everyone avoids looking at Robson until, as is usual in uncomfortable situations, Liam takes responsibility.

“We, uh, well we thought you were attacking Harry.”

Harry has never seen anyone look so aghast. “Me? _Attacking_ Harry? But Harry attacked me! He smacked me with a teapot and chucked boiling water all over me!”

Harry now notices the thick bandages covering Robson’s left arm, curling from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder, and cringes. Yet another person he’s damaged.

“I’m really sorry about that. Did it – Did I hurt you too bad?”

Robson rips his eyes away from where he was stuck gaping at Liam and when he looks at Harry his expression softens. “I won’t lie to you mate, there are some pretty bad burns. Doc reckons I’ll have permanent scarring.”

Harry pushes back harder against Liam’s chest, wraps his arms around his middle, and ducks his head down so his fringe covers his eyes. He wishes he could make himself smaller, small enough to be blown away on a light breeze. Wishes he could just float away, far away, to somewhere he’ll never bother anyone again. Robson brings him back down to earth with a warm hand closing over his kneecap.

“It’s okay, Harry. I don’t blame you, you were obviously scared. But – Just – Why? Why were you so scared?”

“I thought – I thought it was you. I thought you were trying to kill me.”

This time Robson looks not only distraught but also offended.

“We all did,” Zayn jumps in. “Me especially. I was convinced you were trying to hurt him.”

“But _why?_ Why would you guys think that? I mean, I know I come across as a bit of a dickhead the majority of the time, but – but that doesn’t make me a _murderer!_ ”

“We know that now,” Zayn says quietly, staring guiltily at the linoleum floor. “But before – I mean, when I got attacked you were supposed to be guarding the alleyway, right? But you were suddenly called away right before someone tried to get at Harry? It just seemed a bit… convenient.”

“Because it _was_ convenient! _Wilson_ called me, said there’d been a reported sighting of Tomlinson at Harry’s flat and told me to get over there ASAP. I didn’t even think twice. I trusted the guy. And why _wouldn’t_ I? As far as I knew he was a model police officer, the best of the best.”

“Oh,” Zayn says, a faint flush climbing up his cheekbones. Liam extracts one arm from under Harry and wraps it around Zayn’s waist, pulling him in tighter and smudging a kiss across his temple.

“It wasn’t just Zayn though,” Harry mumbles. “Even before that, I never really trusted you. The first time we met I just got this feeling, like something about you was unsettling. I think it was something in your eyes. I don’t know, it was just – Just the way you looked at me. It was different.”

No one speaks for a very long time, so Harry has to look up to see how Robson is reacting. It’s not how he was expecting. Robson is slowly flushing, turning so red he’s almost fluorescent, and peering inside his coffee cup as if it’s supposed to talk for him.

The other boys are just as baffled as Harry is.

“Um, Agent Robson?” Liam tries.

Robson clears his throat. He opens his mouth, closes it and clears his throat again.

When Robson clears his throat for the third time Niall has had enough, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Okay, mate, seriously. _What?_ Just spit it out already.”

“See the thing with that is – because, Harry, you’re like, well, you know and – I guess – I mean, I may have had a – a – a crush. On you. Um.”

Now, Harry may think that every second person he meets is in love with him, but even he didn’t see that one coming. The other boys can’t even move. Niall still has his hands hanging frozen in mid-air above his head.

Realisation slowly unfolds in Harry’s mind and Robson is clutching at his coffee like it might spontaneously teleport him out of this situation.

“So, today, in the kitchen,” Harry begins slowly and Robson squeezes his eyes shut. “When you were, like, advancing towards me, and undoing your tie, and boxing me in against the counter. That wasn’t you trying to kill me, that was you trying to – ”

“Yep,” Robson squeaks.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Robson retightens his tie. “Um, I’m going to go now.” And with that Robson lurches up and strides out of the waiting room, a half empty coffee cup left in his wake.

The boys slowly turn to face each other and Niall is the first to break the stunned silence.

“Maybe everyone _is_ in love with Harry.”

A startled bark of laughter erupts from Harry and he is quick to slap a hand over his mouth, guilt stabbing him in the gut. How could he sit here laughing while Louis is lying on a table with pieces of metal lodged in his body?

Harry starts spiralling down, way down, but is stopped when Zayn brushes a thumb across his cheekbones. He can't remember when he started crying.

They spend the next two hours sitting in the waiting room, huddled and silent. Other people come and go, some gasping, and some quivering. Some with wet eyes, some with dry, and some with eyes completely vacant. The hopeless ones accompanied by others trying to stop them from caving in.

Harry wonders why they’re here, who they’re here for. Wonders if any of them are to blame for someone else’s suffering. Wonders if any of them are as guilty as he is.

But every time the darkness of self-hatred looms, threatening to swallow him whole, Liam will squeeze his hip. Or Zayn will hum something under his breath. Or Niall will offer to go get him something from the café. And although Harry can feel the darkness lurking around the corners, he keeps his eyes forward, focused on his three points of light to guide him through.

Some indeterminate time later Robson comes back in, rubbing at the back of his head and looking anywhere but at Harry.

“Harry, I need to ask you some questions. Questions about Louis.”

Harry sits up straight and gives Robson his full attention. Which is admittedly slightly awkward, but he has more important things to worry about.

“I just need to get my facts straight so we can properly determine what to charge him with.”

“What? Charge him? Charge him for what?”

“For trying to kill you, Harry,” replies Robson incredulously.

“But he was never trying to kill me!”

Robson looks to Liam, Niall and Zayn, searching for backup where he’ll find none.

“Listen, Harry, I know you’ve been through a lot the past few days. But whatever you think you know about Louis Tomlinson, I know him better, okay.”

Harry feels some hot, unnamed emotion prickling through his veins that he refuses to recognise as jealousy.

“You don’t know him _at all_ , alright, _I do_. No one else knows Louis like I know him.”

“Harry,” Robson says, still trying to be gentle. Harry doesn’t want to be gentle, he wants to grab Robson around the shoulders and shake until Robson can see what’s as plain as day to Harry. “I’ve spent the last two years studying Tomlinson. I know all the places he’s ever been, I’ve seen every photo that’s ever been taken of him. I know what I’m talking about when it comes to him.”

“So what happened in Bosnia?”

Robson sits back, staring bewilderedly at Harry.

“What?”

“If you know everything there is to know about Louis then tell me what happened to him in Bosnia.”

“He – I – I can’t.”

“No, you can’t. Because you _don’t_ know. But _I do_.”

“Okay, so maybe he told you some things, but Harry that doesn’t mean anything. He’s still wanted for ass – ”

Harry clenches his jaw and tries to ignore the anger bubbling in his blood because _it did_ , it did mean something. It meant everything.

“For attempted assassinations. Interpol wants him for _attempted_ assassinations. But ask yourself this question, Agent Robson. If Louis is apparently so deadly, then why are all those people still alive?”

Robson just sits in his seat fish mouthing at Harry. When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to answer Harry’s question, Harry does it for him.

“Because he was _protecting_ them. Louis Tomlinson is no assassin, he’s a guardian.”

Once Robson manages to locate his voice-box he says, “It’s – That’s a very romantic notion, Harry, but you’ve got no proof.”

“Actually I do.”

Robson doesn’t even have words anymore, all he can manage is a kind of strangled grunt.

“Go back through everything you have on the Russian defector, the one who was killed in Switzerland. I’m positive you’ll find records of him living in Sarajevo in 2011. There might even be reports of him living with a young man.”

Robson’s eyebrows scrunch up and his mouth pinches in tight.

“A young, British man. A young British man that he pulled from a car wreck and nursed back to health.”

Robson’s eyes go wide. "No way," he breathes.

"Way," Harry states. “So now tell me, Agent Robson, why Louis would kill the man who saved his life.”

Harry sits back against Liam and crosses his arms, daring Robson to say something else.

But before Robson gets the chance a middle aged man wearing green scrubs walks into the waiting room and asks, “Anyone for Louis Tomlinson?” Harry nearly decapitates Liam in his haste to stand up.

“I take it that you’re the young man who came in with him?”

Harry nods vigorously, too afraid of opening his mouth in case his heart falls out of it.

“Well, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad – ”

“Just fucking say it already.” Apparently he can speak after all.

“Oh, um, okay then. Well he’s alive.”

Harry’s body reacts before the synapses in his brain can even receive the information. His breathing picks up, his eyes pool with tears and he can’t feel his face but he’s pretty certain his dimples are big enough to create their own gravitational fields.

Harry’s so relieved that he grabs the nearest body and wraps himself around it, squeezing until his arms go numb. He lets go when he realises it’s Robson, who is slowly turning purple again.

“Yes, it’s a miracle he even made it through. Honestly, when I walked into that operating theatre I was already prepared for a lost cause.”

“Louis’ too stubborn to let go.”

“Well, he’s going to need all the fight he’s got. We were able to resuscitate him, yes, but Louis’ in a very bad way. It’s still possible he might not make it.”

And just like that Harry’s spiralling again, four pairs of hands shooting out to try and keep him upright.

“Louis’ in a very critical condition. He lost a massive amount of blood and that is making him very unstable. Unless we can elevate his blood pressure he’s got a very slim chance of recovering. I’m sorry, there’s not much more we can do for him except pray.”

Harry folds in on himself, whimpering. The hope that sparked so bright inside him burnt out far too quick, leaving him singed and sore.

Then tender hands are cupping his jaw and Robson’s looking deep into his eyes. His eyes are hazel, so light they’re almost yellow. Harry never noticed.

“I really hope you’re right about him.”

A kiss is pressed to his forehead, right above the eyebrow, so soft Harry wonders if it was ever there at all, and then Robson is straightening up and turning to speak to the doctor.

“Louis and I have the same blood type.”

The doctor ushers Robson out of the room and Harry is once again left waiting.

About an hour later Robson returns, pale and sucking at a juice box.

Harry sits up from where he was slumped on Niall’s shoulder and turns to the others.

“Guys, would you mind giving us a minute?”

Zayn gives him a soft smile and squeezes his thigh. “Hey Ni, let’s go suss out the café situation yeah?” He grabs an enthusiastic Niall and a confused Liam, one in each hand, and leads them from the room.

Robson takes the place Niall left beside Harry.

“I never really thanked you for saving me back there. So, thank you. Really. I owe you my life.”

Robson shrugs his shoulders and slurps from his juice. “Just doing my job.”

“Maybe,” Harry agrees, nodding. “But it wasn’t your job to try and save Louis too.”

Robson just shrugs again.

“Hey.” Harry pokes at his side until he meets Harry’s eyes. “You’re a guardian too, you know.”

Robson snorts and scrunches up his nose. “Stop making me sound like some kind of fairy.”

And although Robson plays it off like no big deal, Harry can see the gratitude in his eyes, can hear the pride in his voice. He smiles a private little smile, just between the two of them. Because maybe Robson is a bit of a dick when it comes down to it, but he’s a dick who cares enough to save his enemies. And that’s something Harry won’t ever forget.

“Doc told me to tell you that Louis’ doing better now.”

Harry grabs his hand and squeezes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s a good chance he’ll wake up. The blood helped.”

“Thank you, really. So much.”

Robson squeezes back. “You’re welcome. I’m just glad it’s over now.”

For the millionth time Harry feels like he’s sinking. “But it’s not really over, is it? I painted a massive target on my head and someone’s always going to be aiming for it. At least for a while.”

“I guess that’s true, yeah. But, I also know of a stubborn little thing who seems to make it his business to protect people. And I have a feeling he won’t leave you alone even if you wanted him to.”

Harry bites at his lip to stop himself from beaming like an idiot. It’s not very effective.

“You really think he likes me back?”

Robson turns his whole body to smack Harry upside the head.

“Yes, you _utter twat_. The kid fucking pistol whipped me when I got within 10 feet of you!”

Harry keeps grinning like an idiot, Robson reluctantly smiling back at him.

“I’m sorry that I don’t, you know, like, erm, reciprocate, or whatever. Maybe if we had met under different circumstances…”

Robson snorts. “Maybe. But even if Tomlinson wasn’t around to beat the living shit out of me, there probably would’ve been at least a couple thousand others willing to. The majority of them teenage girls.”

“That’s probably true. Sorry.”

“I’ll get over you eventually, Harry Styles,” Robson sighs, a little hand flourish ending with his palm over his heart. Then he blinks and gets serious again. “Maybe we should stop holding hands now though.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

The two sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Niall comes bounding back into the waiting room. “Soup, Harry! I have soup!”

“Actually, that reminds me.” Harry turns back to Robson. “There’s something I need, but I don’t want to leave the hospital. I’m not leaving until Louis wakes up.”

Robson heaves a world weary sigh. It literally last for about eight seconds. “I _guess_ I could do you a favour. I always like being owed by people in high places.”

“You’re so selfless.”

“It’s a gift.”

*******

When Louis wakes up it happens slowly.

The first thing he regains is his hearing. Everything sounds muted except for an irritating _beep beep beep_ ing in his right ear and the hushed whirring of machinery to his left.

Then his nose twitches and he can smell the sharp tang of disinfectant and the muskiness of blood.

Next comes taste, and his mouth tastes _fucking awful_. There also appears to be a plastic tube down his throat. Interesting.

When the feeling comes back to his body he _really_ wishes it hadn’t. Louis feels as if he’s been run over by a heard of wildebeest and then flattened by a tar roller. And he’s not even sure there exists a situation in which one would find wildebeest and a tar roller in the same place at the same time but Louis doesn’t give a fuck because _every single thing hurts_. Everything except, oddly enough, his right leg. Louis’ right leg doesn’t hurt because Louis can’t feel is right leg at all. _Oh shit_. Fuck. Louis is an amputee.

When Louis works up enough courage to open his eyes he nearly passes back out again with relief. Because Louis’ right leg is still firmly attached to his body, and it’s being lain on by a mass of wild brown curls. The curls start stirring when he tugs at them and then shiny green eyes are blinking up at him. Louis doesn’t half mind the dead leg if it’s because of those eyes.

“Hey, Lou. Welcome back.”

Louis wants his first words to be something charming and witty, but he only ends up gagging on the tube in his throat.

“Oh shit. I’ll go get the nurse, don’t choke to death.”

Brilliant. This is storybook stuff, seriously, straight out of a romantic comedy. Louis tries to huff but _holy fuck his lungs are on fire_. He settles for rolling his eyes. _A lot_.

Once the nurse comes in and removes all the unnecessary tubing from a multitude of bodily orifices ( _that_ was not pretty), the surgeon comes in to have a look at how Louis’ stitches are healing, and then the doctor comes in to explain Louis’ condition and their recovery plans, _and then_ Harry and Louis are finally left alone again. In a room with a bed.

Harry softly picks up Louis’ hands in his ginormous mutant paws and rubs slow circles into the backs of his palms.

“You stayed.”

“Promised you I would.”

Louis blinks hard, because he won’t cry like a sap, _he won’t._

“Hey Lou?”

“Yeah Haz?”

“Would you like some goulash?”

Now Louis can’t stop the tears. But it’s okay, because Harry kisses him until they stop on their own.

And for the first time Louis doesn’t feel like he’s been left with nothing. He thinks maybe this time he’s been left with everything.

Monday was not a normal day for Louis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's finally done! When I started writing this short little oneshot I was not expecting it to turn into a monster which ate my life. But nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to, does it?  
> I really can't say enough thank you's to the people who bookmarked and kudoed(???) and commented on and just generally stuck with this fic. It's really scary to put something you created out there for anyone to criticise and poke holes in. But none of you did that so I love youse all.  
> Also, I feel like a special mention should be made. I didn't really want to keep going with this until _ariadne_odair_ became the sweetest person ever. So thank you love. Cheers to you! You're basically the reason chapter 13 exists.  
>  But enough sappiness from me.  
> Thank you again and I hope you enjoyed :) xxx


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